


May We Meet In A Better Dream

by WaitingToBeBroken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Didn't Know They Were Dating, Dream Sex, Guess who, I Am Making This Sound Soft, Idiots in Love, It is, Like Half Of This Will Be Dream Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, One Of Them Didn't, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, So many picnics, Stargazing, The Other Half Will Be, but also angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingToBeBroken/pseuds/WaitingToBeBroken
Summary: "I love you," Crowley had said once, several lifetimes ago, in a dream. And it hadn't felt dirty, somehow, but pure, just like the creature before him. The visage of his angel, radiant and happy, pressed against him."I love you," Crowley had said once and now, in a different dream, the words were choking him once again.Or the one in which Crowley thought he was dreaming of Aziraphale. It took him a few centuries, the End Of The World and another nap to realise his mistake.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 304





	1. The Memory Of You

_This is what Crowley had said, "You can stay at my place, if you like."_

_This is what Crowley had meant, "I can't lose you, not again. Every moment, every breath without you, it's like flames clawing at my lungs, tearing at my eyes. I cannot bear to be without you."_

* * *

Crowley should have known, the first time it happened, centuries ago. But how could he? 

It was normal, expected even, the only reason he slept for as long as he did, that Aziraphale would appear in his dream. That is, a visage of him would visit the demon, every day, the same smiling angel he wished to remember. It wasn't _his angel_ , it was dust and desperation and loneliness, pressed tightly, held together by the dark tendrils of his mind. It was just a shadow, a memory cast upon a broken mirror. It wasn't _him_ but it was enough. It had to be.

He looked like him, spoke like him, he took his tea just like him, just the way Crowley remembered he did. He was clever and he was kind and when he smiled something chipped away at the demon's insides. Something that fell to the bottom of his stomach like soot and made the insides of his mouth taste like ash. He was perfect. Crowley had known Aziraphale far too long for it to be otherwise. But there was a coldness to him, a mechanical sort of feel. 

Something was missing. The core of him, the only thing Crowley could never replicate. The only thing he truly wanted. The vision smiled, but he never beamed, he laughed, but it didn't ring.

He should have stopped it, the first time it happened. But how could he?

Aziraphale smiled at him, as he always did. There was something so open in his smile, something so out of place in how familiar it was. Something that made Crowley feel lighter, the darkness around him- just this side of softer. He smiled back, the only real thing in this skin-deep paradise.

Crowley kissed him. How could he not? 

That vision, those poison-dripping vines inside his mind, masked as the only pure thing he had ever seen. The only thing he had ever wanted. He should have known, and maybe he did. Maybe something, deep inside him, knew it was real. Or maybe it didn't. 

"It would destroy you," Aziraphale had said, on that day, thrusting a tiny piece of paper inside the demon's trembling grip. The last day Crowley remembered. His angel hadn't known, of course, that it was too late for that. Aziraphale's words had been all he had needed, holy water embedded in insults, rotting him from the inside.

_This_ Aziraphale didn't show the same care towards Crowley's well-being. He didn't take note of a distance, carefully built for millennia, like the sea, soothing gently the cliff, chipping it away, ever so slightly. This Aziraphale stretched hands across the abyss, didn't burn as he wrapped well-manicured fingers around the firestorm that was Crowley.

"My dear," his angel whispered, the affection slipping from rose-red lips, tumbling down, right into the nothingness inside Crowley.

The demon shushed him, kissed away the uncertainty in these eyes, nipped at the butterflies stuck inside the other's throat until he could feel the fluttering of their wings.

'I love you,' he wanted to say, the words like ash, heavy on his tongue. He wanted to, but not now, not to this creature. Not when it wouldn't mean anything.

"My angel," instead, he mumbled, pressing the words against Aziraphale's skin. Soot against snow, marking it, just like a demon would.

Just like always, but not really, _not this time,_ Aziraphale bared himself for the demon, letting himself be drawn down, laid atop satin sheets. Crowley spared but a moment to take it all in, the ring of silver fire around the other's head, the column of his neck, stretched and vulnerable. The soft skin, a stark contrast against everything else, against the inky-black fingers of the demon.

And yet Crowley let his fingers trail across the canvas that was his angel's body, engraving words in long-dead languages, words, the meaning of which humans were unfamiliar with. It was just a dream, he was allowed.

How could he know?

Aziraphale trembled underneath him, soft gasps akin to puffs of air. His eyes were closed, Crowley noted, a pang of iron-hot regret. He could never remember their colour. Were they an autumn field, or the deepest parts of the ocean? Or maybe a pond, carefree ducks waddling around as two figures fed them silently. He never knew. Thankfully, the vision kept up the illusion.

Aziraphale's body, however. Satan forgive him, he knew that body. He had seen it once, so long ago, a Roman bath and his angel, flushed and bare and soft. So, fucking, soft. He remembered every inch, every dip and every curve, every scar that shouldn't have marked an ethereal body. But that had never bothered the real Aziraphale before.

He let his fingers dip into flesh, marking it, soiling it with their very presence. He sunk sharp teeth into oh so soft skin, rubbed a palm across full thighs, felt them fall open in silent confirmation, felt the thrill of the capture as Aziraphale's breath hitched above him. He moved down, down, until there was no skin he hadn't touched, no birthmark he hadn't blackened with his lips. Until the creature underneath him was fluttering and clinging to him, something so raw and tender and searing in the way he grasped at him.

"Crowley, my dear, please," his angel was chanting, over and over again and it was new and it made something inside him ache. He should have known.

_He should have known._

He was rambling too, about how good Aziraphale felt, how soft, how fucking soft he was, and the taste of him. Satan, the _taste_ of him. Everything he had ever wanted to say, every shameful thought that had weighted inside his mind until it was etched into his brain-waves. Everything, but the one thing, those soundless three words, the only thing he wanted to say.

Not that his angel seemed to mind, pressing against his touch as if it was holy, arching into his body, stealing his warmth, his breath, his heart. It should have felt dirty, the way he was soiling the image of the creature before him, the gentle sighs and moans that would _never_ leave full lips, soft skin that would never flush under Crowley's burning kisses. It didn't. 

The way his angel moved against him, wrapped up so tightly, fingers dancing across Fall-bitten skin, mouth forming words that were impossible. It felt... bigger than them. Two celestial bodies caught in each other's orbit, meeting at last. It almost felt _ineffable_.

"I love you," he thought and he said and he promised. "I will always love you."

The vision before him shuddered, one last time, before going limp in his hands. Crowley kissed the flush high on these cheeks, kissed each trembling eye-lid, didn't let himself hope to hear those three words back.

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed, pressed so close it almost felt like something else, something more. And despite himself, Crowley felt a smile claw at his lips. He clung to the body next to him, memorising the weight of it in his arms. Its warmth. For a moment, he let himself believe it was real. 

The next day, upon waking up, he went searching for his angel.

* * *

_This is what Crowley had said, centuries later, "We're on our own side."_

_This is what Crowley had meant, "I love you. I will always love you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so credit where credit is due! The whole concept of this was given to me by the amazing [kiwuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwuh/pseuds/kiwuh) who asked what if Aziraphale could visit Crowley in his dreams but Crowley didn't realise it was actually him. 
> 
> I, of course, took lots of liberties with the concept, but I hope you like it!


	2. The Essence Of You

_This is what Aziraphale had said, in a grave voice on a moonless night, "You go too fast for me, Crowley."_

_This is what Aziraphale had meant, "I love you. I have always loved you. But we can't, not now, not with everything on the line. Please, wait for me."_

* * *

Long ago, when the sun was still shining over bright new mountains and rain had yet to be invented. Long ago and yet, as if yesteryear, Aziraphale met a demon. 

He knew, of course, what a demon was like, what a demon could do. The danger, the pain, that void inside their hearts that pushed them towards unspeakable deeds. He knew how much a demon could hurt him, the ways they could ruin him. He never even stood a chance.

And then, then, he met _him_. 

Crowley, with fire embers in his hair and the sun in his eyes, with sharp words and even sharper smiles. With that raw wonder pulling at his petal-lips as he looked up, as he brought a hand to cradle the first rain-drop. With the way he gazed back at Aziraphale, mirth and something else, something _pure_ swirling inside these molten lava pools. For a moment, frozen in time, each basked in a brand new feeling, just like the dry earth, soaking up the rain.

"Oh," Aziraphale thought as something in his chest, something not entirely his own, sunk its razor-thin claws into his heart. "So this is what a demon is."

Or maybe not.

Long ago still, but not so much. A moment, a fixed point, outside of time and space, Good and Evil, roles predestined centuries ago. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, the curls framing his face, a deadly waterfall, the thin line of his mouth. Wondered what it would take to get him to smile again, just once, just a whisper, an encouragement that what the angel was doing was the right thing. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, and a few dozen eyes looked back.

"You would need it back?" the demon asked and there was something sharp in his voice. A barbed wire, promising to dig its fangs into the angel's skin if he took the wrong step. Aziraphale smiled, hoping that this was what it would take for the sunshine to bloom across sharp features once again.

There was no sun, only a storm, dark and hungry, just as the one above them. A twisted grimace, a lifted eyebrow, something that dared him to take it all back, to retreat behind the sanctimony of his excuses. To shut his eyes, cover his ears, look away and pretend that what was to happen was deserved.

Aziraphale looked behind the demon, eyes roaming over lithe figures, leather satchels balanced on top of bony shoulders, clutched by tiny fingers. He shook his head.

"Keep it. For as long as you need."

Unseeing eyes stared at him, dull as the clouds around them, hungry mouths tried to form words, the meaning of which they had long forgotten. Aziraphale couldn't help it, he looked away, the vice around his heart tightening still, but different now. Sharper and stronger, and only bearable when he was swimming in those bottomless amber lakes. 

"It will always have enough to keep them filled for as long as they need. I made sure." Aziraphale nodded, to assure himself or the demon before him, he couldn't tell. He wanted to do so much, shield them with his wings, part the seas in search of safety. He couldn't, it wasn't in his directive to help these people here, these _children_ and the realisation made something in him rise from an endless slumber, open its gaping maw in a yawn.

A thunderbolt crashed above them, the rain was picking up, wind tearing at their bodies with vicious hunger. And right there, through the angry clouds, Crowley smiled.

And there was a feeling to the air, electricity not quite the same as the one generated by the storm. It was light, barely there, sharp in an unrefined sort of way, the feeling of sand underneath your running feet on the first day of summer. When the earth was not yet scorching, _not yet_ , but given time...

"Oh," Aziraphale thought and for the first time he understood. "So this is what Crowley is."

Not so long ago, now. Wrapped in the finest silk, mouths red with wine and bellies pleasantly round with grapes. Throats tight with laughter, they were sitting together. Aziraphale was leaning into Crowley, every inch of his skin lit anew, where it was touching the demon. He had yet to learn, the chains of knowledge still hanging loosely around his neck, what a simple act of affection could risk. The pain it may cause, to them both, to _Crowley_.

"Reckon, _I_ should tell you a joke now," Crowley snickered, wine splashing around in his goblet. Aziraphale traced the movement, as if in a trance, the long fingers curled around pale silver, didn't know why the image made something in him ache. 

The words finally reached him, as light as the drink in his hand, causing a grimace to pull at his face. He still remembered the last joke the demon had shared. Frankly, it was the only thing he could think of now, upon seeing a camel.

"I rather you didn't, my dear," he murmured, voice slurring, words looser than they would have been, if they hadn't been carried by wine-wings. 

It was the first time that endearment had rolled off his tongue. It wouldn't be the last. It fit, the angel realised in the way most things this important did- slowly at first, and then... As if he had ever had a choice. 

That feeling around them swelled, the same one, from so long ago, the one he could never pin-point. It was different now, light as a stone, caressed by the tide so many countless times before, that it had changed, it had lost its edges, turned into a pearl. It was different, but it was still warm, so close to that feeling humans must get when they finally came home. It made Aziraphale nostalgic, for a place he had never visited, a person he had never met, a time that had never been.

Crowley laughed. And Aziraphale smiled. Indeed, how very dear was the demon to him. 

No joke was told that night. And yet, he wondered, maybe that was the joke. An angel and a demon...

"Oh," Aziraphale giggled, in half-drunk realisation. "So this is what friendship is."

Except...

As centuries passed, the world grew colder. So did Aziraphale. So did the feeling hanging between them, a fruit, ripe-sweet still, but duller now. Choices and freedom and 'my side' slowly picking at its colour until, not now, but soon, it would be a monochromatic picture, a memory, long ago forgotten.

There was a pond, two figures next to it, and there were ducks and there was a slip of paper, cutting at Aziraphale's heart. There were words and worst of all, at the end of it, there was silence. 

There was no more lake. No figures sharing meaningful glances across its shining surface. For years, Aziraphale could not stand to look at ducks.

So he slept. And in his sleep, he dreamt. He saw himself, satin sheets below him, an apple tree heavy with fruit, hanging above his head. Crowley, curled around him. And suddenly, he remembered that feeling, longing for something that had never been. Or was it just for something, yet to happen?

But there was a void, inside his very essence, a part of him that had been missing for so long and now, it was casting a shadow, reminding his heart of its absence. Crowley kissed him. And it was everything the demon was- gentle, sweet, a lover's touch. And it was warm, a fire-bird, spreading its wings, a heavy blanket around them both. And it was real.

_It was real._

Crowley kissed him, again and again, innocent pecks on his cheeks, burning pulls of his lips, teasing nips on his shoulders. The demon kissed him until nothing else mattered, nothing else _existed_ , but them and this place, impossible and mismatched and so familiar still.

"I love you," he wanted to say, but the words felt like candy floss inside his throat, sticky and cotton-heavy. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He tried to swallow around them but they just dissolved, filling his mouth with their nectar, making him gasp for air.

Words he was familiar with, words he had used as a shield oh so many times. But it felt different, somehow, than the times he had held a widow's hands, as he had cradled an orphan child, as he had whispered these words into their ears and felt the worry seep out of them, curdling in the mud. 

It was different and it was new, but it was not. He could feel it now, a firestorm and he had been right in the centre of it, for millennia.

"I love you," Crowley whispered as he shielded the angel in his embrace, as he kissed each piece of him anew. "I will always love you."

Behind the demon's sunset eyes, the feeling swayed, humming happily, sunrise-bright.

"Oh," Aziraphale giggled, love-drunk and finally content. "So this is what this feeling was."

* * *

_This is what Crowley had said, "We're on our own side."_

_This is what Aziraphale hadn't said, "I'm ready now. Please. Hurry."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone for their support!!! I cannot stress enough how much your kudos and your sweet comments mean to me! I swear, I read and re-read each comment, I'm just rubbish at accepting compliments. So, thank you!
> 
> Also, I will be aiming (key word) to update this fic every Saturday, but since I have family coming over this weekend and won't be able to touch my laptop... Surprise!
> 
> I really hope you liked this chapter, I had so much fun drawing parallels to the first one, see if you can spot them all :D


	3. The Taste Of You

It was funny, in the way that made tears prick Crowley's eyes and left him breathless, clutching at his chest. It was fucking hilarious that he had even thought...

For a moment, a flutter of wings stretched thin, he had believed he could have it all. There was a bus, a smile, two hands wrapped together by a red string. There was a heart, half-full with yearning, half-empty with hope. And there was a certain gleam in Aziraphale's eyes as he reached down, as he shared his warmth with the demon's shivering body. 

And Crowley believed. 

And Crowley was wrong.

They managed to escape the sharp clutches of their superiors. For a while it was perfect, there was no 'my side', no clandestine meetings, no half-whispered excuses and stumbled escapes, feeling lightheaded and guilt-drunk. For a while, it was enough. Crowley had his friend back, the same Aziraphale who would laugh and laugh, cherry-red, until they both couldn't breathe. Who would lean against his side and who would touch and touch and _touch_ him. 

It was a relic from so long ago, a dead butterfly he had pressed against the pages of his mind, one he had believed he would never see the flutter of again. It was everything he had wanted, what he would have risked his life for. In the most literal of ways, he actually had.

It was everything he had _thought_ he wanted.

And the thing was, it wasn't fair on Aziraphale. He couldn't expect more from the angel, he had no right. Crowley knew that, accepted it just like he did water and air, reluctantly but knowing he had no other choice. Yet, he felt himself grow irritable, lashing out against his angel, feeling the pain in blue eyes pierce his tattered armour. Always on edge, always ready to parry the next touch, the next wishful glance that could be seen as something _else_ , but never was.

So Crowley slept. And in his dream, he was safe in the knowledge that Aziraphale would be spared his greed-stained fingers, his hungry mouth.

Like the love-sick addict that he was, it didn't take long for his angel to appear. It was unfortunate, the way Aziraphale found him, drunk-pliant and sprawled on his friend's couch, a perfect replica of the bookshop around him. It was... fitting, somehow.

"Crowley," the apparition whispered, wide-eyed wonder that tasted like smooth honey. The demon could, if he wanted to, follow his gaze, see what the other was seeing. That wine-stain on the wall, partially obscured by a bookshelf, an innocent casualty from that one night, a week after the bookshop had opened. His angel had never seen it and it had stood there, Crowley's dirty secret, a reminder of happier, better times. When it had been enough.

He could wonder how it may seem, every detail, every single book in its right place. He could. He didn't.

Instead, he grumbled, a soundless little thing that could have been Aziraphale's name or it could have been a plea. Or it could have been both.

"My dear," finally, the angel sighed and before Crowley knew it, before he could _prepare_ himself, there was a warm body pressing against him, that same scent that had haunted his nightmares for so long, enveloping him. A hand snaked around his own, spider-fingers and beautiful, well-maintained ones, tumbling together. And there was a joke in there, somewhere. But Crowley's mind was too drunk-hazy to tread the rough path of self-discovery.

"We can't." He shook his head but made no move to escape that sweet warmth. Instead, he let his body sink even deeper into the couch, soft with unshed secrets and stained with sour wine. 

"Why?" Aziraphale asked and it didn't sound like fear, like disgust or reprimand. There was a teasing edge to it, mirth wrapped in a cozy blanket and Crowley couldn't help but snort. Even in his own dreams... Just enough of a bastard, indeed. 

And then they were kissing. Crowley didn't know who made the first step, who built the rope bridge across the chasm between their bodies. In a way, it didn't matter. Not here, in a fantasy that tried so hard to be a nightmare. 

What mattered, what was important, the only thing that was able to still Crowley's anxiety-rushed mind was the way Aziraphale leaned into the kiss, the little moans the demon swallowed hungrily. How his angel tangled his fingers into fiery hair, dragging the other close, _closer_ , until there was nothing separating their souls.

An undemonic sound and Crowley was falling down, was being _pulled_ down, blanketing his angel's soft body, sharp edges sanding down until they were nothing. Nothing but desire and dust and love. The demon let his hands roam, uncovering velvet skin, exploring it like a stranded sailor, whose life depended on it. A round shoulder, a round chest, an even rounder stomach. Soft, soft, soft. So fucking soft.

"I love you," he groaned, dipping down to capture the angel's lips in a kiss once again. Aziraphale moaned, whole body arching underneath the demon, pressing so close. So soft. And Crowley kissed him, everywhere he could. Peppered kisses around his mouth, on his flushed cheekbones, on his chin. He sunk sharp teeth in the tender column of his neck, lapped at it apologetically, grinned when he felt his angel shiver.

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale was begging, a most delicious sound that only made the demon slow down, tease even more, just to hear it. Deep kisses turned into pecks, an exploring hand, fingers pressing and pulling, but a feather now. And through it all his angel didn't stop babbling, chest heaving, twitching, chasing warm skin to press against.

They were naked now, clothes- a pile on the floor, Aziraphale's skin revealed suddenly, pure canvas he was allowed to paint on with his desire. Crowley didn't remember dreaming of that, it was not a conscious decision that had passed through his otherwise-occupied mind. But it was the only way, it was _his_ dream after all. 

It was only his dream.

He gazed at Aziraphale, a question shining through the lust-haze. It took only a nod, a curt little thing, and his angel looking away, flustered, proof he knew what the other was asking. And Crowley didn't need anything else to reach down, entrap strong thighs in the palm of his hand, feel the muscles dance underneath soft skin, taste the frustration on cherry-lips. 

"Touch me, like before, please, my dear."

But it didn't work. If anything it made him run his fingers even slower, the feel of small hairs tickling the back of his hand, rocket-fuel for his desire. Snake-like, the demon slid down, every inch of his body pressing against the other's, before reaching his goal. One last glance, one last confirming blush back and he was dipping down, laying light kisses to the insides of Aziraphale's thighs. His angel's breath was growing even more laboured, each caress like electricity, running underneath the other's skin, lighting it anew. There were pink flowers blooming wherever Crowley ran his bruised lips, like fireworks against a clear sky and, Satan, the taste of him. The taste of him almost had the demon feral with want, creamy skin and these strong thighs, twitching underneath his touch. 

It made him ravenous, more thing than a man, and there was his reward, right in front of him, long and hard and he just needed to turn his head and...

Aziraphale groaned, one hand flying to grip the demon's hair and for a second Crowley froze, words like "too fast" and "I don't even like you" like poison, darkening his veins. It was absurd, that icicle of fear, tearing at his insides. The apparition would never push him away, would never say no. Wasn't that the point?

Ignoring the way his skin crawled, different now than before, he let himself be maneuvered closer. There was a beauty mark, high on Aziraphale's thigh that he lapped at, delighting at the annoyed way his angel hissed at him, the impatient tug at his locks. 

"Patience," he would have teased, but he was no better, that itch beneath his skin burning now. The way Aziraphale was begging, a breathless whine, so loud in this quiet world and Crowley knew it was just a game, a fantasy his mind had created just for him. To have his angel so desperate, just from his touch, his kiss. To have him flushed and willing and pliant and soft, underneath him and it was disgusting. He was disgusting.

The fingers in his hair burrowed deeper, tugged lightly and he turned his head. It took only one long stripe of his tongue over twitching-hot skin, a hitched breath, and he was tasting him. It was like nothing he had expected, nothing he had thought he could imagine, and Satan, he was _starved_. Crowley was hungry and desperate and he was swallowing him whole, the weight of him so delicious against the demon's tongue that he couldn't stop the pathetic whine that had been wedged inside his throat for so fucking long. The fingers tightened, manicured nails digging slightly and it was good. To feel that, that control slipping, joining the clothes on the floor, leaving only raw, exposed desire. 

Crowley moaned, picked up the pace, one hand gripping Aziraphale's thigh as if as a reminder, this was real, this was happening. In his dream. The thought lingered, sour-wine on the tip of his mind and the demon shook his head. He wrapped his other hand around his angel's length, felt the burning flesh, the hardness underneath, waited, lion-starved, for the delicious sounds to pour out of red lips.

But there was no sound, only a muffled sort of whine and he hazarded a glance upwards. It was too risky, he knew that, one look at the flushed expanse of pale skin, at a face, contorted in a breathless scream, eyes shut tight and... And he didn't know what he would do, to his angel or with himself, with that yearning, acid around his heart. He still risked it. It was worth it, he reasoned, if it was for these sounds, it was worth it.

It didn't take long to figure out the problem. Viper-like, he lunged forward, wrestling Aziraphale's hand away from his face and pinning it above his head. And there was something, almost tantalizing in that position, with his angel pinned down, vulnerable and open, just for him. He hissed, unable to find words, to find his breath, deaf but for his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

Aziraphale stared up at him, wide-eyed and... Blue. His eyes were blue. Two precious diamonds at the bottom of the ocean. He had never been able to see them before. It figured, of course it did, after all that time they had spent together, all the years of planning everything, all the years of almost living together, in the Dowlings' estate. 

It was normal. They were friends. 

All the time spent laughing on Aziraphale's couch. All the glances they had shared, late at night, over Warlock's head, on sunny days when Crowley had decided to take a walk in the garden. All those meetings, in art galleries and restaurants, discussing their progress.

They were friends. It was normal.

They were friends. And here Crowley was, using Aziraphale's image, soiling it with his coal-fingers, his muddy mind, his unworthy soul.

_How dare he?_

Breathless, as if a vice had suddenly closed around his lungs, he fell back, curled into a ball. Vaguely, he heard Aziraphale talk to him, felt hands press against him, soothing and soft. Yet he could do nothing but shake, a parchment in a hurricane.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to squeeze through the invisible fist around his throat. "I shouldn't have... you don't _want_ this."

Aziraphale babbled something, quick and urgent and too much for the demon's iron-hot mind to process.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale snapped and there was something in his voice, something left-over from millennia past that made the other listen. Crowley raised his head, uncurled slightly from the ball of anxiety he had formed. There were no tears on his face, not yet, a small mercy.

"My dear, please," his angel begged, words just like before that made Crowley wince. But they were different too, desperate in a hideous sort of way that the demon never wanted to hear coming from the other, ever again. Perhaps, that's why he went so willing in his angel's embrace, nothing but a grumble as Aziraphale dragged him closer and turned him so Crowley could press against his chest. Yes, it was only the desire to remove the pain from ocean-blue eyes and not his own, buried deep, desperation. 

"We'll take it slow. As slow as you need, my love," Aziraphale soothed in his ear, rocking him slightly, wrapped so close. Crowley could almost laugh at the irony of that. He could have, but he wasn't sure what sounds might leave his lips if he opened his mouth. So instead he nodded and let that illusion of comfort lull him to sleep.

There was a joke there, somewhere, about the fact that even in his own perfect fantasy he still couldn't have everything that he wanted. That he still knew his place, knew exactly what he deserved. But there was no point in these thoughts, not now, curled in Aziraphale's embrace. Not when he still got more than he could have even hoped for, back in the real world.

So he fell asleep, and when he woke up Aziraphale was gone.

But not for long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley? Dumb? Pleaaase!


	4. The Weight Of You

It was an apple tree. It was always an apple tree, fruits dangling heavy and plump, tempting, above his head. The grass underneath him- soft and rain-wet. He let hid fingers run through it, feeling a tickle that wasn't there. He tugged at the grass, felt it rip, the strands turning to sparks between his fingers. 

There was a sort of freedom in this world between worlds, in this little Eden, just for them.

Aziraphale wondered if the tree might have been him, if it had grown in the deep shade of his mind, blossomed from a seed, planted so long ago. He had always liked apples, the gift they symbolized, bestowed upon both humanity and Aziraphale himself. On the other hand, flushing, he also recalled the first time he had laid in the shade of this very tree, so many dreams ago. It hadn't been him, that day. Not that he had minded terribly.

"Scooch over," a voice snapped from above him and a foot poked his leg gently, a contrast to the sharp words. Aziraphale looked up, a smile already rising to meet a grimace. The scowl only deepened, the angel's smile just got wider.

Delicately, he placed his book on the grass, knowing that it wouldn't be ruined nor would his page be misplaced. Yes, there was a sort of freedom to this world. And when Crowley obediently laid his head, slowly, gingerly, as if waiting to be pushed away, on the place Aziraphale had patted, high on his thigh... Well, the angel could only rejoice in that fact.

"Read to me," the demon didn't say. He didn't need to, amber eyes looking up, already half-open, vulnerable in a way Crowley would never let them be. The demon didn't need to, it was in the set of his shoulders, propped against soft thighs, in the curl of his fingers, resting atop slowly raising chest, in the wings of his smile- languid and free. 

And Aziraphale read, one hand wrapped around a leather-bound tome, the other- around the most important thing in his universe. He read, slowly, softly, until the smile was only a shadow, until the eyes were no longer half-closed. Until the flutter he could feel beneath his fingers was but a single leaf in the summer breeze.

"I miss you," he whispered, when he was sure he wouldn't be heard. "I miss your touch and your smile. Oh, how I miss you, my dear."

There was a fog around them, changing everything, twisting it, making it appear real, but not. Like a vision on a slightly tilted mirror. And Aziraphale knew he was _allowed_ things here, things he had not dared consider for decades now. Things he had wanted for millennia, deep inside, underneath all the grime and fear and all which was "right". 

He should have been content. 

How could he be?

Yellow eyes snapped open, and that part of his brain that wasn't entirely his own screamed, _"Danger, danger"._ There was a hard line, eroding skin, where a smile had bloomed not so long ago.

"I miss you too, angel," the demon said- even, monotonous. It hurt. Crowley with his dramatics, with his flare that had always made fireflies glow inside the angel's bones. With his rolled eyes and loud sighs and flailing limbs.

And he had just said it. As if it was _normal_. As if, staying here, in this Eden, where Aziraphale could touch him and, then again, _not_. As if that was the only option.

Aziraphale's mind flashed to that one time, to loud words and quiet despair. To heartbreak and hurt. Too much hurt. 

How long ago had it been? A week? More? Time was funny here. Time was always funny whenever he was with Crowley.

"I just wish to hold you," he finally whispered, fingers burying inside flames, stroking them, calming them down. "Nothing more, my dear. Just once, out there, in the real world. Come back to me."

Crowley smiled, even if it wasn't much of a smile. It was lips, pulling away to reveal sharp teeth and there could have been mirth in it. Aziraphale was so used to seeing it there, placing it there, that reluctant smile that had meant, "I hate how much I love you," that he had started to recognise long before he even knew the meaning of.

There was no mirth here. It was just a pull. Empty, dull. Just like Crowley's words. 

It hurt to see him like that, as if drained from everything that had ever meant anything to him and Aziraphale tried to think of something to say, something to _do_. And it hurt even more, the silence that stretched between them, the blizzard that had frozen their bodies. 

"You know how I feel towards you," Crowley said suddenly, a snarl with no bite, and made to get up. He would have succeeded, but there were fingers in his hair, a warm grip, surprisingly strong. 

It didn't taste like a love confession, Aziraphale realised, thick mead that lingered on your tongue and warmed your insides. It was a confession, yes, but one, spoken in hushed tones in the back of a church. One that reminded him of rot and all those things they claimed were sins. Despite it, the angel forced a smile, made his fingers loose and gentle. It was a lot, for Crowley to discuss his feelings, even here, even now. 

He was grateful.

He _was_. 

Heaven knew, Aziraphale was all too familiar with that bile stuck inside your throat, drowning your words, that iron vice that threatened to crush your ribs if you ever dared consider the supernova inside your chest. Slow, he had promised. Slow, he would be. If it meant that open smile returning, those honey-sweet eyes blinking up at him again. Lord, he would not even move at all.

"I would think, the same way I do towards you, my dear," Aziraphale teased gently, careful not to say more than Crowley had. Careful not to touch, not to overstep. There was no need to force the smile that was rising on his face, now. Unless, not until Crowley laughed.

And laughed, loud and piercing, his whole body shaking. He laughed until he was no longer laughing, until there was nothing but those sounds, once hiding underneath, now bare and ugly. Loud and piercing and desperate. 

Aziraphale tried to draw him close, drag him up and inside himself, shield him, just like last time, last time it had _worked_. It would work now too, wouldn't it?

It had to.

But Crowley pushed him away, hastily climbing to his feet and turning his back on Aziraphale and, God, how much that hurt. 

It didn't matter, and that ache was pushed deep inside, locked inside a padded cell and ignored, not when _Crowley_ was hurting. The angel raised himself, grass, he didn't bother brush off, clinging to his clothes, wrinkles, that he could not waste time smoothing out. His book laid forgotten on the ground. His Crowley, that life-giving fire inside his very soul, was shaking now, only but an amber. 

One step, two steps and he was standing behind him, wrapping arms around a thin waist, laying a head against a trembling back. Crowley flinched, a thread, loose in the wind, but it only made the angel hold on tighter.

"This, _this_ , it's enough, " Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to his back. 'For me,' he didn't add. It couldn't be about him. 

"I love you," Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He had thought it would be strange to say it, these words that had grown roots on the back of his tongue, that had refused to leave so many times. But now, now, he could see- the flowers that had blossomed from them, their nectar-heavy fruits, crowding his mouth, making his lips widen.

"So let me love you, in here, until you are ready to leave," Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to his flushed nape. The skin tasted sweet and he pressed himself closer, shifted so nothing would be able to come between them, no light, no pesky air. 

Crowley twitched in his embrace, drew back for one infinity-long second before he was turning around, sinking into the warmth. Aziraphale let his head nestle on the demon's shoulder, the movement so natural, as if done countless times before. And if dreams counted, it had. The angel rested his lips against the burning skin on the other's neck, not quite kissing, just feeling the flutter of breath, the dance of a heart.

"And what if I don't want to leave?" Crowley asked, small, uncertain, eyes crinkling in a humourless smile. "What if I can't _stop_..."

Aziraphale shushed him, with arms tightening their hold, with thirsty lips, drinking at his warmth. He knew that feeling, that fear, but he knew Crowley, too. The bravest creature he had ever met. The one who had defied Heaven and Hell and his oldest friend for what he believed in. 

"You will," Aziraphale promised and there was something ancient in his voice. A command that had raised armies, hope, that had resurrected worlds. "And until then, I will be here. Loving you."

For a moment, Crowley stood frozen, breathless, unmoving. For a moment, he grew cold, heavy, a lifeless body inside Aziraphale's embrace. Then he laughed. It wasn't pretty. It was soft and it made his whole body shake, as if suddenly too open, too vulnerable. Aziraphale held him through it all.

Later, much later, and then again, _not_ , Crowley would mumble a 'Thank you'. Raspy gratitude that would tickle the angel's cheek and clench at his heart. 

And Aziraphale would realise. Yes, there was freedom in this world of theirs. But they had come here, chains wrapped so tightly around their bodies.

Chains that dragged them down, _down_ , beneath the surface of this oasis.


	5. The Hunger Of You

Loving Aziraphale was easy. 

It was easy out there in the real world. Like the beat of his heart, the ache in his lungs, it was... important. Necessary. Fundamental. Crowley would almost say ineffable, if he didn't mind the taste of rot it left in his mouth. 

Loving Aziraphale in here, that, that was just an instinct. It was in the way his angel reached out for him, palm- warm, fingers- spread out like a paper snowflake, gentle, fragile. And Crowley didn't even think of drawing back, keeping the distance they had guarded so viciously for lifetimes. It was in the way his angel leaned against him, his body soft and vibrating slightly, with every breath, every beat of his heart that the demon could feel, underneath his own skin. How could Crowley say no? How could he build that thick wall they had taken so long to erect, all on his own? All while the angel next to him, underneath him, kissing him, was doing everything in his power to crumble it whole. 

Loving Aziraphale was everything he had ever known. And now his angel, this vision, the twisted tentacles of his mind... it had promised to stay here, with him. Until the demon had had his fill, until his heart was bursting-full, until he no longer... 

_Loved him._

Pressed together, Aziraphale's nose buried in the crook of the demon's neck, white curls soft around Crowley's fingers. Limbs and hearts entwined. It was gentle. It was magical. 

It wasn't enough. 

There was a hunger inside Crowley's bones, acid eating at his bone marrow, itching at the end of his talons, venom on the tip of his fangs. There was a want, an ugly thing, making his fingers clench and there was a moan, falling from rosy lips. Aziraphale burrowed further, let himself disappear in the demon's blackness, let the fingers dig at his head, pushed at the iron vice around his hips. 

Of course he did. 

And yet... 

"That okay?" Crowley asked, voice raw, heart even more so. He let fingers dig holes in tender flesh, soiling it, marking a body that did not exist.

And yet...

Aziraphale pressed closer, something mangled escaping ruined lips. Fingers curled into a fist around the demon's shirt, making him shift, making him ache. Hot puffs of air tickled Crowley's neck, wanton-warm and delicious, and the demon was drawing him closer, devouring his mouth, eager for just one more taste, one more breath. Aziraphale arched in his arms, a violin's cord, a single touch making it vibrate with need.

And yet...

"Angel," Crowley insisted, burning hot, aching, trembling with need. Aziraphale could only gasp, a shiver running through his body that the demon had to fight against chasing, both with fingers and lips. Still, Crowley moved away, skin burning-cold from the sudden lack of sunlight and sunbreath on it. "Words, angel."

Just like that, as if a dam had broken- encouragements and pleas and desire suddenly drowning the demon.

Just like he had thought they would. Of course.

"Anything you want, my dear, just please," Aziraphale whined, eyes warm and pleading, the same look that would have made Crowley move mountains for him. Now, he just shook his head, fingers hooking into tender flesh. A warning.

He didn't need the confirmation that would fall from the angel's mouth, desperate-red and burning. It was enough, the way Aziraphale moaned, marble skin flushing in the most delicious of ways. The way he chased the fingers, chased the other's mouth, sunk sharp teeth into thin lips. The way his arms were now curling around a lithe waist, heavy and secure, making Crowley think, for one tiny second, that he didn't need that confirmation.

He didn't need it. He still waited.

"Yes, my love." Aziraphale's words, honey-thick, mixed into desperate breaths that Crowley would soon steal, finally escaped his mouth. "Touch me, mark me, anything you want."

And there was that hunger, clawing at Crowley's chest, pecking at his fingers and there was only one way to chase it away, he knew. Keep it in its eternity-rusted cage, in the darkest corners of his poison-mind, pretend it wasn't there. Cover it with leaves and flowers and turn a blind eye to the way it managed to rot everything it touched.

"No."

Smoke-light, but there was steel under it, hiding in the grey and Crowley was moving away before his mind could even understand, before it could snicker gleefully that it had been right. That not even here, not even _this_ could love Crowley.

And there were fingers circling his arms, stopping him. A vice, a hot iron, not yet painful, but still...

"Have at it," he wanted to growl, teeth on display, meant to disguise his weakness and only broadcasting it more. "Fucking tell me why you _can't_ , why this is wrong. Not like I haven't heard it all before."

"Come on, angel," he wanted to taunt, smiling even when tears were burning in his eyes. "Break the heart I never wanted you to know I had."

Instead, he whimpered, a broken sound that Aziraphale swallowed gently. The hands around his biceps were now moving, up and down, soothing circles and he tried to draw back, the taste of the touch- pity-sour on the tip of his soul. But Aziraphale was quicker.

"I cannot stand the way you look at me," his angel started, something dangerously like sorrow shining in his eyes. Terror-sharp, Crowley's teeth sunk into his lips, a net around the whimper, threatening to escape. Blue eyes widened, shining, and Aziraphale shook his head. "Yes, my love, precisely this way. As if I will disappear if you are not quick enough."

And Crowley wanted to laugh now, the terror bubbling in his throat, foaming around his mouth. Hadn't that been what Aziraphale had said? That he would be here, in his arms, willing, _loving him_ , until...

"What if I can't _stop_ loving you," Crowley had almost asked, before, thick desperation choking him. Because that was the deal, wasn't it? The stupid plea his brain had made to itself. Keep this vision, warm and soft, rosy cheeks and gentle fingers, sweet breaths and wanton sounds.

And the hunger would quiet down, the phantom limbs around Crowley's throat would loosen their hold. He would be free.

"Love me," the vision whispered, blue steel piercing the demon's soul, piercing his dark musings. "By Lord, touch me, mark me, anything, Crowley but... Not because you are _desperate_ , not because you are afraid. I will stay here, for as long as you need, until you..."

Crowley kissed him. It was better than listening to this, being reminded of his own part of the deal. There was a limit, a set amount of time even his own consciousness could bear to entertain itself and he was nearing it. And he didn't want to think what would happen once he had reached it.

"Touch me, mark me," Aziraphale had said and he loved the sound of that. Sinful words blackening pink lips and he dipped down, tasting them once again, growling when his angel opened obediently, let him in.

"Sinful," he voiced, before he could even realise what he was saying and felt the lips widen, corners lifting, skin above them flushing.

"Delicious," he murmured, nipping at any skin he could reach, fingers rubbing desire into soft flesh.

"Mine," he growled, fangs hungy-red sinking into Aziraphale's softness, drawing a sharp breath from above him, a surprised moan that would have tasted almost as delicious as the round belly before him.

And the hunger was there, claws sinking in their skin, wings suffocating them both. Crowley tried to feed it, nails digging wells into strong arms, teeth biting into muscular thighs. With caresses and kisses and Aziraphale's moans, soft and delicious. His.

It had always been enough.

Why wasn't it now?

He sat up, deaf to the breathless whine escaping Aziraphale's lips, but for a single shiver, running down his spine. A hiss, the closest he could manage to gentle reassurance, and he was dragging his angel up and on top of himself, a warm weight atop his thighs. For a moment, Aziraphale seemed stuck, mouth hanging frozen in a soundless moan. Then Crowley let his hand travel south, knuckles lightly ghosting over the throbbing length pressing against his stomach, his other hand painting a bruise on a delectable hip. 

"Crow...," Aziraphale tried to say, chocked on the syllables, replaced them with a moan instead, when Crowley wrapped his fingers around him. It sounded far better than anything the demon had ever heard.

And then Crowley was kissing him. His lips, his cheeks, his chin, back to his lips, he could never have enough, down his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Every inch of soft, warm skin and he devoured it, that hunger rumbling underneath his skin, that desert-thirst- rusting a hole in his throat. 

Aziraphale was perfect, a truly wrecked thing in his arms. Every shiver, every half-gasped moan, the way his body would move, taunting, muscles twitching as every touch reverberated  through his whole being. His white curls, still as feathery even with the little beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. The way his head fell, almost helplessly, bracing against the demon's shoulder.

It all felt a little too much.

_And then again, not nearly enough._

Crowley's hand left the mark it had bruised on soft hips, slithered down, curled around even softer backside. Hoisted his angel up, away, denying himself that sweet friction, the dawn of an even sweeter release. A moment, a blink of his judgement, and Crowley was pressing the other closer, breathing in his scent, forgetting that all of this was a dream.

"I love you," he snarled, not much a confession. Nothing but the need, rotting a hole inside of him, his hunger, finally found its voice. He felt wild, frantic with desire and there was a voice inside him, a tiny little thing, that whispered every transgression, every punishing squeeze, every drag of a too-sharp tooth. It kept a tally and it promised its return, later, when the beast was asleep and Crowley's demons were back to torture him.

But for now, there was nothing else to do but _take_. And he did. He drunk his angel's breaths as if a drowning man, he sipped at his skin, he lapped at his pleasure. Before long, Aziraphale was slumping against him, a shuddering, gasping, _delicious_ mess. There were moans, raining over the demon's skin, open-mouthed, sloppy kisses- searing his neck. And Crowley held him through it all, almost gentle despite it all, fingers never stopping, mouth never once ceasing its exploration. 

Later, he settled his angel back on his lap, a welcomed weight atop him, breathless and warm. Pressed Aziraphale close, nestled him in his embrace, willed his erection to disappear. It wasn't the time. Not now. 

Aziraphale's pleasure should have been enough. 

Crowley kissed him, breathing second-hand air back into his lungs. The only thing he was good for. He let his fingers dance on top of the angel's back, ghost over invisible wings. Creep down the curve of his back, the round of his hips, the strong of his thighs. So engrossed, he almost missed the moment Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, heaven-blue seeking poison-yellow. Almost, because he never would have. Not even here, not even with a vision, not when he had spent 6 millennia tuning each of his senses to recognise when his angel needed him.

"May I?" Aziraphale whispered, still so proper, even with his breathless, slightly hoarse voice. His fingers splayed against a firm stomach, tips teasing at the patch of hair underneath them. But it was his face, that made Crowley hiss desperately and fight against the shiver eating at his body. Because Aziraphale was looking at him, gaze uncertain, lip caught between the marble of his teeth. Almost as if he was afraid, afraid that Crowley would say no, that he would push him away. Like he ever could. And the demon would have done anything, would have given anything to erase that look.

His sanity was a small price to pay.

A quick nod and he leaned back, shifted so there was enough space between their bodies. Then he was kissing Aziraphale, glad for the way undemonic moans sunk in the chasm that was his angel when warm fingers wrapped around him. When they moved. Slowly at first and then... not. It was sloppy, Aziraphale's grip around him a little bit loose, the way he twisted his fingers- awkward. It was better than anything the demon could have imagined.

_And then again, not really._

Crowley had wanted to think it would be perfect, the first time Aziraphale laid his touch on him. That it would be pure, just like his angel. Love, drifting all around them, swaddling them in its warmth. He had wanted to think it would happen in the bookshop, dust dancing in the sunlight, as reality shifted- slightly to the side. As the crooked mirror finally righted itself and the bizarre world inside it. 

It _was_ perfect. In the twisted sort of way Crowley had found to accept as part of his life. When he would get everything he wanted, but not nearly, not _enough_. Aziraphale was perfect, a hot vice around him, blanketing him with his body, kissing him feverishly. Yet, it didn't help. That ache inside the demon, like a disease, and every time his angel's fingers would dance across his skin, every time warm lips would slide over sweat, it felt like it was spreading, corrupting everything. 

Crowley let his hands curl over already bruised skin, let his fangs sully pure skin, muffled his whimpers, desperate and _weak_. He wanted gentle. He wanted to kiss Aziraphale, taste his skin until there was nothing else in his world. He wanted to tell him how good he was, how soft, how lovely, and the words were clawing at his tongue, begging to escape with the next searing breath. He wanted to hold him tight, never let go, know that even later, even _after_ , Aziraphale would still be there, warm and smiling. He wanted it all. What he needed, however, was _this_. And Aziraphale, that sweet apparition, sharing the same air as him, sensed it quickly, gave it to him immediately. 

It didn't take much. It didn't take long. 

_It wasn't real._

There was always a moment, right after Aziraphale slumped into his embrace, when the demon had him in his arms, naked and vulnerable, breathless and shivering. There was a moment when everything got... quiet, somehow. When Crowley blinked through the haze and found himself looking at a world in which everything felt right. When the hunger was sated, for now. 

Crowley shivered, bit back a hiss, felt blood pool on his tongue. There was no silence.

He cradled his angel closer, rearranged his loose limbs so he could sit comfortably atop the demon. Pressed these soft curls between his chest and his grip. Let his other hand grip Aziraphale's thighs, feel the hardness underneath, proof enough to fool himself. This creature was in his arms, it was real _. It was real_. He wanted it to be.

Aziraphale hummed, eyes drifting closed. He looked peaceful, innocent, _perfect_. He was. More than that, he looked safe, in the demon's embrace. All those walls they had both built between themselves crumpled in their feet. All those carefully guarded looks, sighs, half-breathed words that the desperate part of Crowley's brain had pointed at and insisted, 'See, he doesn't hate you', clear now. Painted on the sky, etched into the earth beneath them.

Satan. But he loved him. 

Every inch of him, every smile, every glance. His fussiness and the way he worried, the gentle lift of lips as he smiled, the crinkles around his eyes. The way he would scoff sometimes, would grumble in mock outrage, even when Crowley could see the tremble of his mouth. He loved him. Desperately. Wholly. He did.

Crowley tried to press the other closer, this creature, this vision, a perversion of a demon's mind. He sunk his claws, his fangs, his hunger into welcoming flesh.

It wasn't enough.

_Why wasn't it enough?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the age-old question- 'Plot? What plot?' But I promise the next chapter will have a bit more plot than this one (which is not saying much)!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and I hope you liked it!


	6. The Patience of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I promise I'm not dead. And I've got a surprise!!!

Aziraphale felt restless, pacing inside his bookshop, dusting books that had not encountered dirt in centuries. 

It was infuriating. Everything was. _He_ was infuriating.

There was an itch, just beneath his skin, a long lost yearning he had thought, hopelessly believed, really, he would never feel the touch of again. Because he had what he had always wanted, didn't he? The things that even his wildest dreams would scoff at, would laugh mercilessly at, head thrown back, knife-sharp teeth on display.

Finally, he was free to show his affection, that supernova, suspended in time. Finally, he was free to receive Crowley's love, to bask in its warmth, to marvel at its wonders. Finally, he had it. Him. _Crowley_.

In a different world, his mind supplied, ever so helpful. And that timeless need yawned its gaping maw at him, swallowed him home.

In a different world, that never was. In a different time that never would be. He had him.

And he was itching to go back. 

He had his duties, Aziraphale tried to remind himself. He had his shop and he had his books and he had his knitting circle. He had his friends, however few they might be, and he had his customers. He couldn't very well just abandon it all, just so he could spend all his time in Crowley's dreams.

_Oh, but how he wanted to._

Aziraphale shifted behind his desk, fingers absentmindedly wrapping around the abandoned book on it, before curling into a fist instead. And that was the problem, wasn't it? That every moment spent here, in his haven, in what used to be the only place in existence where he had felt safe... Every moment _away from Crowley_ just felt... wasted. Empty.

The doorbell chimed, cutting through the thick air and Aziraphale's dark thoughts. It was ironic, the way his heart leaped, for the first time in centuries, at the prospect of someone who could dig him out of the sudden void swallowing him whole. 

And then his heart stopped. And never quite got the hang of it again. 

He climbed onto his feet, shakily, eyes glazing over, giving the moment a sort of dream-like quality. Or was it? If it _was_ a dream... Lord knew, a small piece of his sanity would have chipped away.

But it wasn't. Because there Crowley was, standing in the doorway, a smirk pulling at thin lips Aziraphale had devoured countless times. The flames in his hair, the way they would wave and curl, right at the tips, when he had just woken up. And, Lord, Aziraphale knew that look. He had kissed that look off sharp features so many times. A hunger, a yearning, much like his own that he had painted over with soft lips and softer even touch.

It was enough to make him forget. Enough for him to slip, words like 'slow' and 'careful' trickling out of his mind to make space for love and desire. He lunged forward, hands, cold and empty, outstretching to curl around welcoming flesh. It took the move of a muscle, the subtlest of twitches and his hands were dropping by his sides, empty and colder still. 

It didn't stop Crowley from flinching back, arms tightening around his too thin frame, as if to protect it. A wounded animal.

It didn't stop Aziraphale's heart from shattering completely, fine dust snowing over empty ribs. 

"Slow," he had vowed. "Slow," he had lied.

They stared at each other, a moment doused in quiet desperation. Crowley's glasses were firm over his eyes, his features had fallen lax, relaxed in a defiant sort of way and yet Aziraphale knew. Of course, he did. He could hear the demon's breathing, even, normal, calculated. He could see the flutter of anxiety trapped in the tender column of his neck, anxiety he had kissed free so many times. And there was the hand balled into a fist, carefully shielded away from view, but _he knew_ , and he could see, could _remember_ , black nails digging into soft flesh.

And it ached, a hole where Crowley would have been, had been, wrapped around him. Phantom limbs that he had considered his own for so long he had forgotten...

Aziraphale smiled. It didn't look right. But then again, neither did Crowley's grimace, lips twisted in a sneer, mocking the world and everyone in it.

"Such nice weather we are having," the angel noted, the false cheer heavy in the air. He nodded towards the window, at the way raindrops were lashing at the glass. Felt relief when Crowley's gaze shifted away from him. Hated himself for it even more.

He had thought the previous silence had been dreadful. But this one, this one fell on top of them, a heavy quilt, uncomfortable and stifling. Suffocating. Yet, Aziraphale didn't say anything. There was one thing Crowley hated more than anything, more than Heaven, more than Hell and it was his own insecurities. And there was something so terrible, so raw, in the fact the demon was letting Aziraphale see him like this, a dove trapped between iron-claws and the angel had almost let go of the rope, holding them open once. He couldn't... he couldn't risk it again, he couldn't push, not so soon after. 

So he stood quiet, let the demon set the pace, a delicate dance in which he was more than happy just to follow.

A smile splashed across Crowley's face, wild and sudden. 

"Why else would I come back?" he teased and suddenly the air was as light as his words and that feeling spilling around them, a feeling Aziraphale had a name for now, but not. No, because it was so much more than that. It was love and devotion and worship, wrapped together in eternity, tied by the strings of destiny.

Crowley shouldered past him and Aziraphale had to wonder if he had always had trouble stopping his hands from reaching out, seeking warmth. If he had had to stop himself from following sharp angles, swaying rhythmically, with his gaze or if it was an entirely new problem. A consequence of knowing the feel of being swallowed by the demon's warm embrace, of remembering the way hips moved underneath black clothing, muscles strained as hands lifted him effortlessly. 

His hands itched, lips burning and yet, all he did was follow the other to the backroom in silence. What else could he do? What else was he _allowed_ to do?

There were many things he loved about Crowley. How infuriatingly stubborn he was, how foolishly brave, how headstrong, how lovely, underneath it all. And there was something else. Something that ought to have bothered him. The way the demon moved, never once still, a flurry of limbs, an anxious tap here, a restless bounce of the leg there. An action in motion. 

It should have felt _wrong_ , a stark contrast to the cold stillness of Aziraphale's world. Yet, the angel drew comfort in it. It was proof, a constant reminded that Crowley was next to him. Infuriating and reckless and oh so lovely. 

But it was wrong now. Too wrapped up in the memory of Crowley's body around him, above him, it had taken him too long to realise how unnaturally still it was. The demon had been frozen, an immortal statue outside the clutches of time, for too long. 

It took Aziraphale even longer to remember that this, sitting next to the other, thighs touching, elbows rubbing together, lungs sharing the same breath. It wasn't customary for them. 

Not here, not where it counted. 

"Wine?" he managed to squeak out through too tight throat. 

Tried not to wince when all Crowley could offer was a garbled string of sounds. 

Tried to ignore the way his heart shattered, _and how many times were too many_ , when upon returning, he found the demon slumped in his seat. Shoulders relaxed, head thrown over the back of the couch. Filling it out so Aziraphale had no choice but to move back to his usual armchair. Sit away from his demon, as was normal. Or, rather, as it had been. As if eternities past.

He had to remind himself that it wasn't about him, that he had no right to demand anything from his demon. Crowley had waited for him, for centuries, millennia. He had loved him long before Aziraphale even knew what that warm feeling, gently smothering him, was. 

He could wait. 

He had to.

It took 2 bottles of wine to stop the sting that thought left upon his soul. It took twice more for the words clawing at his throat to finally escape cracked lips. 

"Oh, how I've missed you, my dear."

Like a dandelion, the words scattered in the air around them, free and light. Unable to be taken back, collected in the palm of the angel's hand, crushed in his terrified-strong grip. All at once it was too much, and then again. Not enough. 

The endearment was ash on his tongue, mouth too used to the taste of better, sweeter words. Yet, he was glad he had chosen it, a reflex really, one etched so deeply into his very soul. Because Crowley's body still coiled, shook, a caged snake. His hands balled into fists. For a moment, nothing existed between them, not even silence. Then, Crowley laughed.

Somehow, it sounded even worse. 

"'Course you did," the demon grunted, a lazy wave of the hand, before slumping even lower. Aziraphale had known him for far too long not to notice the sarcasm, the self-deprecation wearing the colourful costume of humour.

"Crowley," the angel started, stopped. Sighed. The words were stuck in his throat, heavy and sweet. Too sweet for Crowley's liking, no doubt. He shook his head. "Thank you. For coming back."

It was the least he could say, after spending an eternity in paradise trying to get his demon to leave. It was starting to set in, the reality that this, here, it _was_ happening. And it might take years and it might hurt oh so much, during, but some day, some day he would be able to hold Crowley. Cradle him in his arms, twist around him like a vine and never let go. He _truly_ couldn't have asked for more.

A tentative smile crawled across his face. His whole body relaxed, shoulders sagging with that invisible weight gone. He could finally breathe again.

Maybe that's why it hurt so much.

"It wasn't real," Crowley noted, voice too sober for the numerous bottles around his couch. "None of it was. It was nice, yeah, but it didn't mean a thing."

And it could have been Aziraphale. It could have been the way his eyesight had suddenly dimmed. The way everything had almost shifted, stretched, as if the angel had found himself underwater. But there was something about the way Crowley was looking at him, eyes cold, challenging almost. The defiant jut of his chin, the square set of his shoulders. A viper ready to strike. Or readying itself to be stricken.

Finally, Aziraphale managed to mumble, meek even to his own ears, "As long as you enjoyed yourself, my dear."

Because, of course, Crowley was right. It hadn't been real, but a fantasy, a dream they had both had. Shared, yes, but from the comfort of their own homes, underneath their own darkness. Had he been more selfish, Aziraphale would have blamed the demon for hurting him so, the words drawing crimson blood. But he couldn't really, could he? How many of his own blades had he brandished against the other's heart? How many times had he seen that look he no doubt was now sporting? 

Crowley didn't owe him anything. Hadn't promised him anything, apart from that lone night centuries ago, and then now, more recently. But only ever in the disguise of their own shared reality. Never here. Never where the angel could hold him, feel the weight of him in his grasp, the pleasant sharpness of his corners.

Never where it _mattered_.

He lifted his head, managed a weak smile. Crowley was still looking at him, something cold and guarded burning in the gold of his eyes. Aziraphale had almost forgotten that look. Had been so unbelievably happy to let himself forget. 

All too sudden, Crowley was leaping out of his place and stalking towards him. There was one terrifying moment when Aziraphale's body seized, on its own accord, when the breath he had never actually needed refused to leave his lungs. When his mind refused to believe that the creature sliding towards him, venom seeping out of every pore, was the same one he had held in his arms as if millennia ago. 

And then Crowley was kneeling in front of him, body sagging to the floor, and the illusion shattered, like glass on marble. Aziraphale had to wonder how he had even feared this dear thing, his wounded demon. He stretched out a hand, cradling the other's side, thumb running over a high cheek-bone. Tried not to let the pang of hurt spread when Crowley flinched first, before relaxing into the caress, eyelids fluttering shut. Pretended so _hard_ he had not seen the dampness at the edges of these molten lava lakes. 

"My dear," he tried, gently, reassuringly. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, what he was allowed to say without pushing, without asking for too much. Even this, touching the demon so gently must have been an infraction. He could tell himself Crowley needed it, Crowley was hurting, for whatever reason, but it didn't make it better. It didn't stop it stinging like a violation against the demon's wishes. 

Crowley shook his head, a subtle shift, really, as if afraid that anything more would break them away from this frozen moment. Or maybe simply break them. 

"You really don't know, do you?" Crowley asked, centuries later, yet before the angel's hand had had the pleasure of growing numb, holding him. "You don't even know what you do to me."

And the demon was lifting his head, and there was no possible way for Aziraphale to ignore the tears, heavy in his eyes. It was even harder to ignore the way his fingers itched to sooth the pain, lips burned to kiss it all away. But he had overstepped enough today, hadn't he? There was nothing for him to do, words failed him. Even if they hadn't, what could he possible say?

Could he tell Crowley that he knew, of course he did? How could he not, when he felt the same. The same aching pain when the other was away, as if his presence was a physical thing and the lack of it... Well it was like a limb missing, an important part of his very soul, ripped away from him. And that ever present desire to wrap around his demon, like moss, heavy on a tree. The need to succumb to his honey-mouth and silk-fingers and to forget, if only for a year, for a decade, that life existed outside their embrace.

Heart pulsing with that unnameable feeling around them, tongue heavy with unspoken words. Yet, he still flinched away when Crowley leaned closer, breaching distance they had been building for millennia.

Aziraphale couldn't help but stare. At plush red lips, caught in an ivory prison, far too tempting, even closer than before. But he couldn't. He stared harder. Took in the demon's hunched shoulders, the fists, trembling in Aziraphale's lap. The look of quiet despair, of barely concealed fear.

Crowley needed him. But not in this way.

"My dear," he tried, firmer now. His hand fell down as if the blush crawling on top of cheek-bones was scalding. "We can't."

It hurt to say it, after everything that had happened between them. It hurt to be the one pushing away the other's affection. But he knew it would hurt even more if the look on his demon's face never disappeared, never softened.

The hand in his lap gripped his thigh, sharp talons teasing at his pants. It wasn't shaking anymore, but it would still twitch, ever so often, whenever Crowley's self-control frayed.

"Just this time. Please, angel."

And it might have been that. The endearment Aziraphale had not heard all night, its lack a palpable void at the end of the demon's every sentence. It might have even been the naked need inside Crowley's eyes. Like poison, seeping into Aziraphale's every pore.

Or simply, because it was Crowley. Lovely, maddening Crowley. And Aziraphale had never quite got the hang of resisting his temptations.

Quickly, fully realising that even a moment more might bring a change of heart, the angel nodded. And then Crowley was lifting himself, eyes fluttering shut, lips sinfully parted. A vision, that had already etched itself behind Aziraphale's eyelids. The angel almost didn't know what he was expecting. They had kissed so many times before, mapped every inch of heated skin.

And yet, they hadn't. Because there Crowley was, solid against him, and this, it was real. The firm grip the demon had on his thigh, as if he, himself, could not quite believe this was happening. The shuddering breath that the other took, before capturing Aziraphale's lips once again, the way the exhale tickled the angel's face. The way Crowley was trembling, ever so slightly, something buried inside of him fighting so hard to escape his tight clutches.

But there was something so horrible about having Crowley below him. As if a dam, hanging heavy between them. A never ending echo, a reminder this was only happening because the other had asked and because Aziraphale was too weak to say no. 

The desire to lift the other, bring him closer, let him burrow in his embrace was a heavy cloak around him. Even worse, there were words, apple-sweet but oh so damning, burning the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale knew, the moment they pulled apart, they would thunder between them, words of devotion, words of worship. Words he didn't have the right to taste.

And yet, he would have. Damn him, damn it all, but he would have. 

Another shaky breath and Crowley was drawing away, lifting himself on wobbly feet. Aziraphale wanted to think it was because of the wine, the wine and the kiss, making them feel almost drunk. Secretly, he knew. Of course he did. He tried to catch the other's eyes, tried to flash a smile. Plastered across his lips, there to reassure, to forgive, him or the demon, he wasn't sure. But Crowley's eyes were too heavy, weighted down by something so terrible he was not able to raise them. 

A "Thank you" that hung in the air almost like an afterthought and Crowley was turning around. He was shivering, a twig in a hurricane, hunched down by an invisible weight. He was _leaving_. Aziraphale had to clench his fists, nails like razors against soft flesh, had to bite his lips until copper flowed in his mouth.

Heaven forgive him, but he almost slipped up, he almost stopped the demon leaving, moving away from him, step by painful step, until he was but a shadow against the doorway. Almost ignored Crowley's desires, the explicit way he had made it clear he wanted to be alone. 

He almost set loose all those words, a heavy rope against his throat. Almost let the burning of his fingers dictate their movement.

He didn't, of course, he didn't. He had already done enough today.

_Hadn't he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, these idiots met in real life. Only to act like idiots once again. Oh well...
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	7. The Feel of You

Crowley didn't know what was more pathetic. The fact that he had broke down, had begged on his knees for even a drop of affection from his angel.

Or that he was here now, in his dream, trying to pretend it hadn't happened. Laying in this Aziraphale's lap, soft fingers playing with his hair, even softer voice lulling him into a ridiculous sense of security. Letting him believe the foolish notion that he was safe, that if he was here, he didn't have to face his own angel. 

Didn't have to drown in those pity-blue eyes. Didn't have to see soft lips form rejection-sharp words.

Here, now, Aziraphale's hand did not stop its gentle caress, the smile didn't flutter, didn't stretch across pale features, plastic and so damn hurtful. He could be happy, here. He could pretend he was.

"I'm sorry," yet, he heard himself whisper. 

"For what, my darling?" the vision above him asked, the gentle lull in his voice never once disappearing. 'My darling', the endearment slid across the demon's skin, making it feel prickly and too small to contain every _badrottendirty_ thing he felt towards himself. 

How many times had Aziraphale called him this. My darling, my love, my dearest demon. How many times had Crowley felt these sweet words seared onto his very soul, kissed on every inch of his skin. 

And yet, out there, in the real world, Aziraphale had called him, 'my dear'. Had frowned and scowled and bit that word as if it was as poisonous as Crowley himself. 

Too late now, but the demon realised, he had spent too much time here. He had almost believed it was real.

He shrugged, felt the way thighs shifted beneath him. Now that he knew how they really felt, muscle twitching underneath soft skin as he wrapped his fingers around them, as he _squeezed_... It was another cruel reminder that this was not real, sharp mockery that pierced the demon's skin, pore by fucking pore.

"For the way that I am, I suppose," finally, he sighed. Was there even a point, apologising to this creature? But no, it felt right, it felt like _something_ and the smile Aziraphale flashed him, a small guarded thing that almost looked like the real thing from that nigh- No.

"Where do you think you are right now?" Crowley asked suddenly, stubbornly not letting himself look away from the creature before him even though it hurt oh so much. Felt the breath return in his lungs when Aziraphale's pity was momentarily shadowed by confusion. 

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale laughed and it rung so clear in the space between them. As if it was a physical thing, the first warm breeze after a deadly winter. "I'm right here, my love."

Crowley shook his head. The fingers never stopped, tiny circles against his temple that seemed to unravel him whole, and here he was, slippery fingers loose around the last cord.

"Real you. Where do you think he is?"

Aziraphale laughed again but it sounded strained somehow. A leftover chill was creeping in.

"Oh, back in the bookshop I would wager." The wrinkles around the angel's eyes had deepened and Crowley knew the way these features folded, had seen it just last week and he didn't want this. Didn't want to be reminded of that night in the only place he had considered himself safe. 

The only place he had thought he could escape the reality of it all. 

He lifted himself, a heavy push that worked to extract his body from the angel's gravitational pull. Making it easy to think, if only for a while. Because the moment he turned around, the moment cursed eyes met baby-blue ones he knew. Of course, he fucking knew. Even though it was all a dream, even though there was _nothing_ stopping him from taking whatever he wanted, from crushing and tearing. From doing everything that dark voice inside his head would whisper sometimes, in the dead of night, when the silence rung with dread. Even then...

"What do you want, angel?" he asked, because of course he did. Even here, the only thing that could make him happy was seeing Aziraphale smile, hearing him laugh, wiping that carefully sterile look from once so gentle features. "Anything that you want and it's yours."

Aziraphale laughed then, head thrown against the bark of the tree, sunshine glistening in the shine of bitten-red lips. Crowley knew the taste of these lips now. 

He didn't think he would ever forget.

He leaned forward, chased that taste, that ambrosia that should have burned him from the inside the first time. Maybe it had. Maybe that's why he felt so echoingly empty. It was strange, that, the way Aziraphale pressed against him, hands wrapping around the demon, palms burning against his skin. Desperate and hungry, ravenous, so similar to the constant state Crowley had grown almost comfortable with, over the millennia. So uncharacteristic for his angel. And it was delicious, _it was_. Cherry-sour with pity and regret yet so unbelievably sweet. He couldn't get enough.

"I want you to be happy," Aziraphale whispered against his lips. And there must have been something in Crowley's expression, something dark and honest, because the vision changed. Beauty crumbled, the glow dimmed, that feather-light smile tightened, like a string. "I mean it, my love. Please, let me make you happy."

Crowley wanted to laugh. At himself and at his mind and at how utterly pathetic this must make him. He wanted to laugh until he forgot what laughter sounded like, until the tears streaming down his face no longer burnt like salt on a wound. What he did instead was get up, and the world tilted, just for a moment, before he straightened up. Before he willed the tremors in his hands to dissipate, the tightness in his chest to loosen.

He extended a hand, wiggled his fingers. Felt a smirk pull at his lips. It was easy that, teasing and playing, tend to the roses around that rotten hole inside his chest and one step and he might tumble down but, oh, what a lovely smell they had. Aziraphale looked up at him, questioning and uncertain and it wasn't real.

Yet it hurt, seeing that look on his face.

"Come," Crowley insisted, and the smile was real now. Warm. He knew what he wanted. "Make me happy then."

And before long he had Aziraphale in his arms, solid and his, pressed against his body, swaying to the the tune of an invisible melody. Their surroundings shifted slowly. The garden was gone, where once was an ancient tree were now flowers, sickly sweet. Darkness bled around them, stars were twinkling above them, there was a city in the distance. Just far enough they could still hear its presence, the buzz mingling with the song until they were one, until the noise was but a layer of it all. 

It was strangely familiar and it took Crowley a moment to remember. A night, just like this, decades ago. A warm April night and Aziraphale had been gone for so long that Crowley could not stand to be inside the bookshop he had visited so many times and found empty. He had insisted they got out of the city for a night. There had been a blanket in the Bentley's boot, and hope, buried in Crowley's heart. 

He hadn't been brave enough. He never was. Maybe that's why he had been able to hold onto Aziraphale for so long.

"Oh, my dear," his angel whispered against him, pressed closer. "How I wish we could do this some day."

Crowley tightened his grip, as if to use the other's body as a shield against the words he knew were coming. Oh, but how silly of him. Not to consider he was just trapping them closer. 

"Do what?"

"Have a picnic, dance beneath the stars. Go on a proper date."

The wistfulness of his angel's words was a palpable thing, scorching hot and poisonous. Crowley laid a kiss on white curls, tried to pour all his love into a single caress. But his heart was oh so full and the night was way too short.

"We will," he promised, to himself or to the angel he wasn't sure. Was there a difference? It still hurt, a lie, stinging tender meat. "Someday."

"Promise me?"

It wasn't a demand. It would have been better if it had been. It was vulnerable and tentative and mist-light and Aziraphale was looking up at him again and... How could Crowley say no? _Satan_ , how could he? He nodded, hypnotised and weak, unable to do anything but offer his freshly torn heart on a stardust plate.

Much, much later, feet numb and lips burning, they finally parted. Instantly, Crowley could feel a chill wiggle gleefully between them and then envelop him whole, replacing the angel's heavenly warmth.

It was unbearable. It was pathetic. How quickly he wanted to reach out, draw the other closer again. 

He needed to leave, the realisation slammed against him with the same force he had been using to keep it at bay. Living with Aziraphale, out there, in the real world, it was like being in the most beautiful garden. But he had to be careful, step light around the mines buried deep beneath, don't spend too long admiring roses that might bleed him dry. Here, here it was like a field, fragrant and freeing and Crowley knew. He could feel, the habit of always looking where he was going- fading away.

It was just a matter of time. A hand, resting too close, lips temptingly smiling. He was bound to slip.

But then again, hadn't he already?

And yet, when he looked back to his angel, all thoughts of pain and humiliation whispered away, surrendered themselves fully to the wishful look on Aziraphale's face. The other was staring at the distance, eyes looking at the city before them, heart looking somewhere else.

"Do you remember that night, my love?" Aziraphale asked and when he turned around his eyes... His eyes were the brightest supernovas Crowley had ever seen. "The night we came here?"

Crowley shook his head. Not because he didn't remember, because he did. Of course he did. He could recall every second, every trite moment he had spent in Aziraphale's company. Yet, it was obvious to him that he didn't, not _really_ , not the way his angel did, raw and so beautiful and Crowley had to wonder. Had to ask himself what the fuck had he even done to deserve such a look.

He waved a hand and a blanket was spread on the ground. A blasted tartan thing that still hid, tattered and dusty, in a distant corner of his Bentley. Tried not to notice how gracefully Aziraphale sunk on top of it, tried not to let the weight of his world crash him when he dropped down on it himself.

And then he was laying down, he was opening his arms, and how stupid could he possibly be? It had become a habit now, a reflex, more important than breathing, better than living, to have Aziraphale in his arms. How could he even go back?

"I had been away," his angel started, voice muffled from where he was pressed against Crowley's chest. His breath tickled, warm and _there_. "Heaven business, you see. And when I came back you offered to drive us here. It was less than ideal, I remember thinking that, too cold and too silent, too... But your smile, Crowley, my dear, _that_ smile. It made it all worthwhile."

Aziraphale lifted his head, curls teasing at the demon's neck just like his words were teasing at his heart. A peck against unusually heated skin, a huff of laughter pressed against Crowley's side and the demon didn't know which one was more delicious.

"Tell me about the stars, darling. As I hoped you would, that day."

And then Crowley did something stupid. The most moronic thing in his entire existence, but then again, when had that ever stopped him. He looked at Aziraphale. At the tentative smile, at the hope in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the warmth of his body.

He didn't want to admit it, hadn't wanted to think about it for months now, in this dream-like world. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Because it was no longer _dream-like_. It could have been the fact they had been here before, under the same old stars, sweet words and tartan blanket missing but _still_... It could have been Crowley's stupid mind, hording stray memories, lingering touches and half-missed looks and that kiss to piece together the perfect torture device.

But it felt so _real_. Laying here, with Aziraphale in his arms. Knowing that his angel loved him. Knowing that he could. 

It made something strange wiggle in his heart, something that he hadn't tasted in millennia. Something he had always thought he would never be that stupid to feel again.

And yet, a seed of hope. Tattered and broken, buried too deep, in too dry soil. But he could feel it unfurling, seeking the warmth of his angel.

He tightened his hold on Aziraphale, dragged him closer. Placed a kiss on the other's curls, breathed in the smell of him. 

He felt so _solid_.

"I'll do anything for you, angel," despite it all, Crowley heard himself mutter.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought they were dumb before? Ha, wait until they go on a date without realising it was a date... I mean, one of them doesn't. We all know who has the brain cell less often in the relationship.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. The Beauty Of You

Crowley was gorgeous.

He had always _been_ gorgeous. From the very first moment Aziraphale had laid eyes on him, when the world was just small enough for them both. With his hair burning like fire, his eyes- even more so. With his teasing smile and that playful lilt in his voice. Calling him an angel, a mockery, but, _no_ , it couldn't be.

Not with that smile.

And there was a gentleness to Crowley, a naked beautiful need, a teasing playfulness. That perfect moment when the sun had risen just above the horizon, bathing everything in its amber hues, when the day was new and it did not matter the hardships that were before you. For only but a moment, it was peaceful, and it was safe and it was the same feeling that filled Aziraphale's heart whenever his demon was around him.

It was no wonder then, the smile creeping on the angel's face the moment he heard the familiar engine, the even more familiar footsteps. But, oh, nothing could have prepared him for how beautiful Crowley was. Standing there, in the doorway, hair swept as if he had ran his fingers through it one too many times. And Aziraphale knew how that looked, had marveled at that look for centuries, back there, where time did not exist. A hesitant smile, a simple curl of the corner of Crowley's lips, beautiful in its defiance. And the most verdant flower Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on, a beautiful green thing with white flowers, towering over it.

And then there was Crowley's love, bright and shining, flowing tendrils pulsing out, reaching out for the angel, tempting him closer with their warmth.

It occurred to Aziraphale they had yet to talk about the last time Crowley had been here. Visions of tear-filled eyes, of bruised knees and sharp smiles invaded his consciousness. A picture, overlaying the glowing figure before him, dimming the happiness that had suddenly turned his skin scarlet. They had only seen each other in their dream, and it was lovely, of course it was, enjoying Crowley's untethered love. But the demon had said it himself, hadn't he? It didn't matter, that world might have been nice but it _did not matter_. 

It wasn't real. 

The same must have occurred to Crowley, as his smile dimmed, the grip around the flower turned sharp. Aziraphale opened his mouth, to apologise for overstepping his bounds when the other had needed him most, to promise it would never happen again. _He_ would never let it happen again. To beg for forgiveness, just once, just this one time. But the demon was sauntering inside the bookshop, eyes carefully avoiding the other, and there was something so pointed in the way he moved. 

A creature that knew him less would have thought he moved with purpose. Aziraphale, on the other hand, could see exactly how lost his demon was. He felt his heart ache. If he could only... if he could just drag Crowley in his embrace, if he could _ask_ him what was wrong. Sit there, limbs wrapped safely around the demon as he assured him that they could take this as slow as the other wanted, they could move at whatever pace his demon needed. He just wanted to know _why_ , wanted to help, wanted to _fix it_.

But Crowley had never asked, had he? He had silently borne the countless 'you go too fast for me's, the 'my side's, the ever so damning 'we are not friends'. The least Aziraphale could do, the least he _owed_ Crowley, was to do the same. 

"Here," the demon said, eyes still glued somewhere to the left, as he placed the pot on a nearby surface, away from the sun. A shrug of the shoulder, a nonchalant wave, probably meant to disguise the way his hands were shaking. "Thought this place could use some colour."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed, hand clenching at where his heart was swelling, ready to burst, filled with the love burning all around them. Dimmer now. Yet still the most vibrant thing he had ever felt. "Than..."

"Peace Lily." Crowley was already moving away from the pot, having made sure no direct sunlight would reach it. He was now fussing with the few books Aziraphale had left on top of the little table in the corner, quickly returning them to their right place on the shelves. "It's supposed to purify the air. Don't want you choking on all that dust you have been hoarding. It's also extremely hard to kill, even though I'm certain you will try."

Aziraphale was about to protest this gross misjudgement of his gardening skills, when Crowley finally looked at him. A flower, one so carefully curated just for him, the faint blush on the demon's cheeks and all Aziraphale wanted to do was gather the other in his arms, kiss that flush until it grew, until it was as brilliant as the love swirling around them.

Crowley had put so much thought in his gesture and Aziraphale knew better than to try to thank him.

"I'll try my very best not to murder it," he teased with a smile. Felt the warmth bloom even brighter as Crowley's shoulders relaxed, ever so slightly, as he returned the smile. As he finally made his way closer to the angel. Close enough for Aziraphale to reach out, if he could. If he was sure he was allowed.

"Would you like to wait for me in the back while I fish out that nice bottle of wine from... Oh, the 80's, was it? Remember, my dear, from that nice little village back in Spain? We..."

"Actually." And Crowley was closer now. Close enough for the angel to feel the irregular beat of his heart, the sharpness of his breath. The little tremor as his fingers reached out, before curling tightly into a fist. "I thought we could go out. Maybe have that picnic I promised you so long ago?"

And Crowley had always been beautiful. A supernova in its brightest and Aziraphale couldn't move away, even when it was rushing towards him, even when it hurt. Beautiful in his strength, in his love, in all the things he would provide, silent and selfless. But never more than in this very moment, smile defying all odds, eyes bright and hopeful behind the sunglasses. An unseen strength, rippling out of him in waves, chipping away at the shore of the angel's restraint. 

Aziraphale swayed forward, just slightly, instinctively, a meteor caught in the other's orbit. His hands were tingling, his lips were already on fire. And damn it, damn him, but the desire to reach out, to drawing his demon in his hands, was like venom, deep beneath his skin. To smother the agony painted across sharp features, the trepidation that had seized every muscle of Crowley's body. 

Without thinking, but he wasn't sure if that would have stopped him either, he reached out. Curled his fingers around that tight fist, pried open the needle-sharp nails digging into tender flesh. Wove his own around them, like they belonged, two different strands of the same wool, creating something new. Something beautiful.

"I would love to," Aziraphale heard himself say, a gentle murmur, just for them both.

He didn't raise his head. If he had, he would have found himself looking into these beautiful chrysanthemum eyes, he would have felt the stutter of a hot breath upon his cheek. If he had, he would have been close enough to feel those chapped lips against his own.

And he wasn't sure he would have been able to stop himself.

It feel like a dream. When Crowley squeezed his hand, lightly, first, and then... _not_. It felt like a dream, even as his demon led him outside, a gentle tug of their connected hands, as Crowley opened the door for him, as Crowley guided him inside the car with that same hand, warm against his back. As the demon smiled at him, a tiny little thing, and Aziraphale felt like, suddenly, the mere inches that were dividing them were a snowy tundra, an endless void inside an unforgiving galaxy. 

Perhaps that was why he chose to cross it, an upturned palm, resting between them both. Perhaps it was the fact it didn't quite feel real, didn't quite feel solid. There was that calm now, one that would settle on top of him with the weight of the world, a calm that would whisper, conspiratorial and wicked, 'It's not real, none of this is real. You can do whatever you want here.'

Or maybe it was that ache inside his heart, the constant gluttonous need and now, when Crowley had given him a crumb of affection, now when his demon had made the first step, its appetite whetted, it wanted more. He had to control it, he knew that. Even as Crowley slotted their hands together, an invisible red string binding them together, the angel knew. Broken words and trembling hands, and bright eyes void had seen to that. 

Crowley had offered a picnic. Aziraphale had been the one to go and take this further in his excitement. Thankfully, the other hadn't flinched away, hadn't reminded him of his promise to take things slow. But that didn't mean what Aziraphale had done had been warranted. 

_He had to control it_. He would. A squeeze of the other's hand, a tentative smile, and he was moving away. Had he turned around, had he allowed himself to see the way Crowley flinched, hands curling into a fist as if to catch the warmth seeping away, he would have understood. He didn't. 

Of course, he didn't.

It wasn't that hill, from so long ago. From a memory that had turned into a dream. Aziraphale was almost glad of it, he wasn't sure he would have been able to bear it. Laying there, where just last week Crowley had had him in his arms, had showed him the constellations. Had kissed him under the stars and told him he loved him. And now Aziraphale was supposed to pretend he thought it wasn't real, that it didn't matter.

Instead, Crowley led them to St. James' park, a wicker basket in one hand, a tartan blanket, the same one Aziraphale had seen not long ago, thrown over one shoulder. And yet, the only thing the angel noticed, the thing his useless mind fixated itself on was Crowley's hand. The one closest to the angel, the one that no matter how many things the other had piled in his grasp, had been left temptingly empty. And, oh, he could reach out, now, couldn't he? Now that he had seen Crowley didn't mind, now that he had been _invited_ to hold him. Could he? Or would that be just another violation in the long list of Aziraphale's missteps?

Crowley's hand was there, warm and soft, long fingers trembling ever so slightly. An inch and Aziraphale could just let his own hand bump into the other's and then maybe the demon himself could reach for him. A step closer and...

And he was too late. Crowley was already stopping in the shadow of an oak tree. 

"Here okay, angel?" And there might have been trepidation in his voice, or it might have been excitement. Aziraphale smiled, vowed not to let regrets darken their day.

"I think this tree might be as old as you and me, my dear." Aziraphale touched the thick trunk, looked up at the patchwork of sunshine streaming though the leaves. Flushed when he tried not to remember a similar tree and every touch they had shared underneath its shade.

Crowley's laughter rung through the air, a clear, happy thing that seemed to surprise them both. The demon looked at him, something dangerously close to content shining in his eyes as he bent down to place the blanket on the ground. 

And this was how Aziraphale had always imagined their life after the end that wasn't would be, after Heaven and Hell and notions like 'my side', that felt silly now. Almost childish. But when the angel had let himself contemplate it, dream of it really, this is what he had imagined. His lovely demon, splayed on a tartan blanket, smiling up to him. The sun shining above them, children's laughter tickling the air. A stray duck eyeing their basket suspiciously. 

It was exhilarating. More than that, it felt real. A distant memory, a secret wish, buried deep inside his fragile heart, splitting it open. And now, finally, _finally_ , Crowley was letting him close. A small step, but that's all he wanted, all he needed not to lose his mind. 

His demon smiled at him, patting the space next to his body, and Aziraphale sat down, back immaculately straight against the trunk of the tree. Which seemed to amuse Crowley, or was it simply the energy of today. The other was laughing again, head tipping back. 

"Thank you, my dearest," Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from saying, even when he knew how the other could get, all from a few nice words. But there were no sharp teeth, nor sharper glares and Aziraphale was guilty of the flash of regret of not finding himself pressed against the nearest flat surface. No, instead, Crowley opened his mouth, no doubt to refute any such disgrace on his character, before looking away, the faintest of flushes painting marble cheeks.

"Haven't even seen the food, yet," the demon grumbled, but there was so much fondness there. So much warmth, even when the demon's smile was suddenly covered in the thorns of anxiety. Even when the hands that reached inside the basket were once again trembling, silly little things that they were and Aziraphale couldn't help but cover them with his own.

"Let me help, my dear," the angel murmured, hands lingering in their touch a moment too long, as he moved Crowley away from the basket. His tongue burned with a different endearment and yet he bit it. Not now. He wouldn't push now. "You have done so much for me already."

Crowley's eyes narrowed and the other knew him too well not to understand. There was only so much gratitude the demon could take and he was slowly reaching his limit. It would have been easier to stop, to pretend this was simply one of their many outings together. Perhaps even a business meeting, a time to discuss work and make plans.

It would have been so much easier if not for the happiness, warm in the angel's blood, the laughter, bubbling at the back of his throat. If not for the fact this was not one of their normal dates, that this reminded the angel so much of all the time spent inside their Eden. Except, it was real now. 

_It was real._

Still, he decided to take pity on the demon. 

"Very well, I shall stop with the compliments." Aziraphale smiled. There was something teasing in it. "But you are not allowed to be a grumpy old man."

The way Crowley snorted told the angel he had already won. Still, his demon was determined to keep up appearances. 

"Oi!" Crowley waved a hand as various containers littered the blanket. "Would a grumpy old man go to every single one of your restaurants to pick out your favourites?"

Aziraphale appeared deep in thought. Finally, he grinned. "Apparently."

Laughing, Crowley grabbed a croissant and made to throw it at the angel. Probably would have, wasting a perfectly nice pastry, in Aziraphale's humble opinion, if the angel hadn't wrestled it out of his grip, breathless and happy and for just a moment, free. A moment too long, until he found himself, mere inches away from his demon, lungs hungry for Crowley's breath, fingers burning to taste the flames underneath the other's skin. 

And there was a moment, a hitch in the fabric of time, in which Aziraphale forgot himself. In which he let himself _remember_ , Crowley's sun-kissed hair, the weight of it between his fingers. The taste of his skin, apricot-soft and just as sweet. Aziraphale smiled, dream-drunk and dazed. His eyes flickered down, soft lips, so close to his own, and something changed in Crowley's expression, hardened. 

The demon moved away, a single twitch of the head that was enough to remove his hot breath from Aziraphale's cheek. It was almost unfair, how easy it had been, to deepen the harsh distance between them. To leave the angel suddenly gasping for air as an ice-grip tightened around his neck like a noose. 

They were free, now. There was no longer 'my side', no more clandestine meetings, and that fear, ash in Aziraphale's mouth, each time he tried to smile, to tell Crowley... They were free, and the angel had to tell himself that it didn't matter how long it would take. He had to remind himself he had to be grateful for what he had already been given. Sitting here, sunshine warm on his face, Crowley's body burning beside him, the ghost of the other's hand heavy in his grip.

"Did I ever tell you," he started, voice a tad too light for the occasion, but just enough to make Crowley look at him, "about the koala man?"

The demon's eyes narrowed, nothing but a trick of the light, but Aziraphale knew better. He waited, breath frozen in his lungs, as the guarded look on the other's face slipped, replaced by a tentative smile.

Slowly, Crowley relaxed on the blanket, a long stretch of skin across its checkered surface. And what a nice picture he made, body lax, head tipped in a way that let him look at Aziraphale without lifting himself. The angel had to stop the pang in his heart, familiar just like its beat, at the realisation that last time, last time he had been allowed to tuck himself in the demon's side. Had been able to rest his head on strong chest, had felt fingers tease at his scalp. 

"Is that the one who kinda looks like a koala or the guy who is just obsessed with them?"

Aziraphale laughed. What else was he supposed to do, faced with that little smile, soft on Crowley's features, the tease in his voice. Hands already reaching for the nearest container, he started one of the many stories that they would share that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now they are _kind_ of understanding they are on a date. You say idiots, I say progress (also, absolute morons, yes).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. All Of You

There was one thing Crowley had realised on a day just like this. Aziraphale had looked at him, gentle creases around his eyes, his beaming smile playing tricks on the demon's mind. The warmth the demon could bask in for centuries, for millennia, until he was nothing but dust. Soft hands enveloping his own, taming the acid in his heart. 

As if Aziraphale cared. As if he wanted to be there.

And it was dangerous, that realisation, that rotten seed of hope, nourished by gentle caresses and inviting smiles. Satan, but how much it would hurt when he was proved wrong. When he managed to _fuck_ this up, just like he had always done when it came to his angel.

When Aziraphale finally looked at him with that disgust, etched inside heaven-blue eyes, when that smile turned into the poison Crowley deserved. And it _would_ happen, he knew it would. There would be a wrong word, a misplaced touch and Crowley would be gone, the world around him falling to pieces, like a rotten flower. Petal by diseased petal.

He had known that. Even then, that first day he had decided to show up at Aziraphale's bookshop with a stupid flower and that dusty blanket. But there had been hope, a hurricane bending his resolve, a willow tree, twisting in the storm. And he had decided.

He would enjoy it. No matter what it was, no matter what it was born from. He would enjoy every smile, every gentle word. The way Aziraphale held onto him, almost like they belonged together. It would hurt far too much, when it was gone, for him not to carve every single moment they had spent together inside his very soul. 

They had just had a marvelous meal at the Ritz. It hadn't been so much the food as the way Aziraphale had closed his eyes, humming around each bite. That grateful smile he had given Crowley, when the demon had ordered dessert for them both and then pushed his tiramisu towards the angel.

And through it all, as if it was normal, as if it was _expected_ they had held hands. It was still something new to the demon, that warm weight pressed against his own. The way Aziraphale would squeeze sometimes, light as the vice around the demon's throat, would sometimes run his thumb over Crowley's digits, would press against the frantic beat of his heart, thumping on his wrist. 

It felt silly somehow. Here was the creature he had loved every single day for decades, the one that he had held in his arms, gasping for one more kiss, arching in his touch. And Crowley couldn't stop his own heart from trying to vacate his chest cavity the moment they touched? How pathetic he must be.

But it was different now, he reminded himself, until it was the only thing ringing in his useless brain. Until he could hope to believe it. It was _Aziraphale_ , not a vision, wrapped in the twisted tendril of his mind. Aziraphale, who apparently didn't mind holding his hand, while they were walking in the park. A short stroll as their stomachs settled, the excuse Crowley had given, if only for the chance to see the full moon illuminate the halo around his angel's head. 

"My dearest." And that was another thing. Because now, apparently, his angel was using pet names. It still made Crowley freeze, a moment too long before he could remember Aziraphale was talking to him.

"Hm?" he asked, hands giving a squeeze that showed he was listening. Because he could. Certainly not because he was still trying to memorise every line of the other's palm, every dip and every valley.

For _later_.

Aziraphale nodded at a nearby bench and Crowley followed him to it. There was something in the way the angel looked, a quiet determination that cut at Crowley's heart, big, fat chunks, a feast for the monster that was the demon's self-doubt.

"Thank you," Aziraphale started, when they were both settled down. They were sitting close, thighs touching, hands connected, resting on top of them.

Aziraphale was not going to tell him to stop. He was not planning on looking at the demon, a sad smile that said more than enough, as he explained that this had gone too far. Crowley had stepped over that invisible line, a deadly laser, surrounding his angel and he only had himself to blame, really, for the way his limbs were quickly falling away from his body.

Aziraphale was not putting a stop to their friendship. Not yet.

With his breathing now under control, Crowley was free to focus on his angel words. And promptly winced.

"There is nothing to thank me for, angel," he said quietly, because it was the truth. Because there was nothing worse than having Aziraphale thank him, like he deserved it, like he was _worthy_.

"No." His angel was shaking his head and that might have been worse. That quiet despair, the purse of Aziraphale's lips, the clouds obscuring moon-pale eyes. "I mean it, my dear. Thank you, for everything you have done. It couldn't have been easy on you."

Crowley's mind snapped to their current position, the heat permeating his body, the comforting weight of his angel's shoulder pressed to his own. The stutter of breath he was so close he could hear, could almost taste on his rancid skin, could almost feel it soothe, heal.

It wasn't hard, being with Aziraphale. It had never been, not even when angry words and heated glares had been the only warmth he could be promised. It was worth it. Of course, it was, a single smile and he would forget, wouldn't he? Everything that had hurt until now.

The pain that would accompany Aziraphale deciding it was time to go back to how things had been... That, that wouldn't be so hard to dispel. But it was a problem for the future, and that was a pain etched on the tombstone of a different Crowley. 

The fingers around him squeezed, warm and reassuring. 

"That is to say," Aziraphale rambled, in that distinctive way of his, when he felt he had spoken out of turn and hoped if he continued talking nobody would realise. Crowley, who never missed a single word that came out of his angel's lips had never been fooled. "I appreciate this, what we have. Slow, yes, my dear?"

Slow didn't mean stop, didn't mean let go and never look back. It didn't taste acidic, like rejection would, nor did it shred Crowley's heart with far too dull blades.

It still hurt. 

The demon could say he had gotten used to it but he would be lying. It was lucky, then, that lying to himself was what he was best at.

Crowley smiled, a soft thing that almost reached his eyes. "As slow as you want, angel."

Eternities later, or was it simply a few mortal hours, Crowley was laying in his angel's lap. He didn't quite remember how he had ended up there, only the taste of a few too many glasses of wine and the honey of Aziraphale's laughter. And then he was tipping over, or was he being gently pulled? It didn't matter, because there he was, now. Sprawled on the couch, head resting atop the clouds of his angel's thighs, manicured nails scrapping gently at his scalp.

And it felt _solid_. It felt _real_. That's because it was real, the sordid part of his mind noted. The same one that loved, oh so much, to remind him how this would not last. How it was a fluke, simply Aziraphale being glad he was back and him, being the disgusting, perverse thing he was, tarnishing it.

The same part that flashed images of them, in ancient Rome and Mesopotamia and Cairo, drunk-happy and laughter-flushed, propped against one another. Before, when the distance between their limbs had not tasted quite so rotten, when Crowley _could_ reach out, without guilt, without fear that those moon-bright eyes would turn to him, cold and deadly. A time when their friendship had been simpler, a time much like now. And Crowley had to wonder if it was the same, if this was what _friendship_ was, unadulterated and unshackled by rules and what was right. If this was what friendship with Aziraphale felt like?

The fingers threading through his hair left their fiery mark, but not unpleasantly so. It felt almost like settling next to a fireplace at the end of a winter day, the first ray of sunshine caressing your face after a long night. He rolled over, face pressing delightfully against the soft of his angel's stomach. He felt tired, the caress unraveling him whole, making him feel weightless. But for once in his life he did not want to let go of the tether holding him to the mortal world. For once, his reality was better than any dream could offer.

_Because it was real._

"Bought you a book, I did," Crowley murmured, half-asleep and pliant, despite himself. "Big book fan, you."

A flourish and the book was in his hands. It had felt heavier when he had bought it, the care he had put into tracking it down, the _love_ , scribbled on the cover in cursive, weighting it down. But it was just a book now, a silly thing he had spent month trying to find just to see Aziraphale's smile. Just to hear that delightful gasp, the hitch of his breath as he ran his fingers over the leather cover. All which he was missing now, too busy trying to burrow himself beneath his angel's skin, deep enough that he wouldn't be able to leave.

"Virginia Wolf? My dear, you shouldn't have!" Aziraphale's fingers were shaking, just slightly, as they pressed against his head. Crowley wanted to kiss them, each soft knuckle, each round finger tip.

Instead, he sneered. Had he not chosen the moment to press closer against the other's waistcoat, it might have actually worked.

"Don't... It's not a big deal, that. I've seen the empty space you have left for it on the shelf, angel. Pretty sure there is a family of spiders living there now." He tried to wave a hand nonchalantly, but only managed to make it flop next to him.

"I would so hate to have to move them," Aziraphale said, something wistful in his voice, something the demon knew better than any earth melody. And he wasn't looking at his angel, wasn't sure he would be able to handle it. He didn't need to, to know the look pulling at gentle features.

"I'll take care of it," he promised, the first words out of his mouth that sounded intelligible ever since that third bottle of wine. "Will even serve them an eviction notice. Don't wanna be unfair to the poor buggers."

Aziraphale laughed and Crowley had to wonder how he had been able to survive without hearing that sound every day. "Oh, let's not go too far, my dear. I do want to see my collection completed, after all." 

His angel's fingers moved away from his hair, slowly sliding across his cheek, dancing on the edge of a sharp cheek-bone. It was almost enough to make Crowley shiver, a burning need snaking around his insides, making it hard to breathe, freezing his heart. He didn't, of course he didn't.

What would Aziraphale think if he found out the way Crowley was reacting to his touch, the sinful thoughts like vipers poisoning his mind. His angel might find it distasteful, too forward, disgusting. No, he was happy this way, with Aziraphale's gentleness carefully washing over him, with the hand, curled around his own so often now, he could barely remember anything else. And there might be kisses, later on, gentle pecks on round cheeks. If Aziraphale wanted, if Aziraphale instigated it.

Crowley would never find himself on his knees, begging for affection again. He had promised himself that. And it wasn't because of his pride, sod that. He would never let something as silly as that stop him from having Aziraphale, even slightly, even a little. But he still remembered that look on his angel's face, the dread, the barely contained horror when Crowley had reached out, when he...

Aziraphale was talking about something, something soothing and the demon tried to focus on that instead. What he did notice, however, was the slight tightness in the other's shoulders, the way his other hand had curled slightly, the occasional flicker of his angel's gaze towards something to the left.

He smiled. If he wasn't feeling as drunk on wine and Aziraphale's affection, he might have even realised how genuine it looked. 

Instead, he heaved a dramatic sigh, cutting short his angel's gentle ramblings. "Oh, go on then, read your stupid book." 

It didn't stop Aziraphale's eyes from sparkling happily, amber-warm chuckle escaping full lips.

"Are you positive, my dearest? I don't mind for one second wait..." 

But Crowley was already waving his hand, pressing even further into Aziraphale's warmth. His next words, slightly muffled and exaggeratedly sluggish, made the angel smile. "Feel sleepy anyway. Might take a nap."

Aziraphale didn't respond, except to ever so slightly, press the demon towards himself. 

And this was how, lulled by the rustle of old pages, cradled by Aziraphale's softness, Crowley fell asleep.  
  
When he opened his eyes he was sitting in a field, a warm breeze playing with his hair, much like how Aziraphale had done. Back there, in the real world. He was alone now, but for once that didn't matter. He could sit here, beneath the moonlight, safe in the knowledge that someone _was_ waiting for him, someone _cared_ if he never woke up again.

It didn't take long for Aziraphale to join him. It never took long. And there he was, bright eyed and gorgeous, settling his head in Crowley's lap. Looking up at him, a playful smile teasing at his lips, fingers intertwining with the demon's own, before he was pressing them to his mouth and... Satan, but he loved him so much. How ridiculously pathetic, how positively undemonic it was. He adored him, enough to know that it wasn't fair on his angel.

He couldn't go back in there, the taste of _this_ creature's skin searing on his tongue, his ears ringing with the gasps of Crowley's name, falling from cherry-full lips. He wasn't worthy of looking at the _real_ Aziraphale, not when he had spent eternities here, watching him fall apart in his arms. 

"I did wonder, my dear," Aziraphale was saying, and it sounded faint, as if through a waterfall-curtain. "What did you mean when you said we will go as slow as _I_ wanted? Surely, you know..."

"We can't do this," Crowley snapped suddenly, pushing the other hastily away and climbing to his feet. "We cannot meet here anymore."

"Well, why the Heaven not, dear boy?" Aziraphale was not yet cross with him. He would be, if the way he patted at his trousers was any indication, the way he forcefully tugged his waistcoat down. But then his angel was stepping towards him, dreadful alarm settling on his face and that was worse. Horror was clawing at Crowley's insides and, suddenly, he felt sick.

When Aziraphale reached out his hand, the demon flinched back. Tried not to look at the pain flashing across his angel's face, tried not to give in to that innate instinct to kiss it away.

"You don't understand." Crowley was pacing now, the soft grass, like blades, cutting at his soles. "I love him."

"You love _whom_?" 

In the pale light, Aziraphale's eyes looked almost hollow, empty and cold. Crowley had to remind himself, this wasn't his angel, he shouldn't care about the way this creature's features twisted. The warmth bleeding out, what had once been a smile turning sharp, turning pointed. The silver, like a halo, around the other's head, now reminding him of iron. It was just a dream, a fantasy that had waited too long to become the nightmare it had always meant to be.

"You. _Him_." Crowley waved a hand as if that would help. It only made the creature freeze, eyes narrowing. "The _real_ Aziraphale."

"I _am_ the real Aziraphale."

The vision looked at him, something horrible overshadowing every other emotion dancing on his face. Something that made Crowley's heart lurch. Understanding. Bitter and cruel, understanding washed over them both.

His angel stepped closer and Crowley, suddenly so fucking empty, could not even move. Could not even react as a hand, just like that one, out there, _because it was_ , cradled his cheek.

"Crowley, my love. Open your eyes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are so soft on each other! And I am too evil, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Pros and cons of killing me. Pro- you get revenge for that horrible cliffhanger; con- you never actually see them resolve their idiot misunderstandings. So I guess I will live... for now.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


	10. I Adore You

_Crowley left. Of course he did._

Aziraphale watched his demon, dread-thick mud sinking to the bottom of his stomach. He watched, features molded into kindness the other would not accept, not usually. And the fact that his demon _had_ , had leant into the touch, eyes fluttering shut like a heart - stuttering, just before it stopped, it _hurt_.

There would be time, Aziraphale promised himself. He would look back to every interaction, would dissect every word, every ghost of a gesture. Would feel the bitter resentment as he realised how much hurt he could have saved them both, could have saved _Crowley_ , if he hadn't been a fool. There would be time, but it wouldn't be now. Not when Crowley was trembling before him, a man on death row. Except, and Aziraphale had realised that quickly, painfully, it wasn't the dream that was the prison. It was what was out there, in the real world, that Crowley was dreading.

And then his demon closed his eyes. A flurry of wind and that distant smell of apples that the breeze carried and he was gone. Aziraphale stayed, just a moment longer. Allowed his body a single shudder, released the whimper that had lodged itself somewhere behind his heart. A final fortifying breath and he was emerging.

He was a moment too late.

Crowley was already gone.

* * *

_Crowley left. Of course he did._

He knew he shouldn't have, knew it the moment he materialised inside his empty home, the chill of it burning his very bones. He forced himself to pretend, a feat even for someone like him, that the way his fingers trembled was due to the cold.

He _could_ have tried to understand what had just happened. How had he slipped, just once, just _when it was important?_ But how could he have known? How could he have even guessed that lying there, soft on his angel's thighs, relaxed in a way he could never remember being. That it would invite his angel somewhere he would have never stepped willingly. Somewhere dark enough to sully even his innate shine.

How could he have known that such an innocent act would be his downfall?

And then again, he argued with himself, at some point, as he was gazing at the bottom of what must have been his third bottle. Aziraphale had not left, had he? He had smiled at him, something so terribly soft shining through it all. Had held his fucking hand, easy as anything.

Had called him his 'love'. 

No, Aziraphale hadn't left. What else had the demon expected from his angel, from the best fucking thing that had ever graced him with its existence, the only thing that was holding his rotten soul from collapsing in on itself. Aziraphale cared for him, that much was clear, that much Crowley allowed himself to accept. Someday, not soon, but soon enough for the roots of his moronic hope to crowd his lungs. Someday, Aziraphale might even love him. 

Or he would have, that dark part of his mind, that loved to whisper his transgressions like a mantra, reminded him. Aziraphale might have grown to love him had he not just found out Crowley dreamt of him. And if only the demon could fucking keep his mouth shut, could swallow the lead-heavy truth that this wasn't the first time he had dreamt of his angel. Could stop himself from revealing all those _other_ times, all those other _things_ he had done to Aziraphale, every single violation.

Crowley knew what he needed to do. He was demon enough to realise the way to get out of this mess. He would find his angel, later, when the truth was not thumping against his skull, and he would apologise. Claim this was the first time, find a way to explain away his behaviour. Then, continue with his attempts to court Aziraphale and hope to Someone his angel never found out.

He was desperate enough to admit, this was what he needed to do.

What he wanted, was to tell Aziraphale the whole truth, bare his wicked soul, every single vile action, every kiss that had tasted like fruit, but was now an infected wound upon his essence. 

And he would. He would.

_But not now._

* * *

  
Aziraphale waited. 

He was good at that, had always been so very good at keeping his distance, at turning a blind eye to the void between them, a pebble short and yet... And yet he had known, they both _had_. The consequence of stepping even a breath out of line.

He waited and he read, and he chased away his customers. And for a few weeks it was enough. Why, it was almost like that last time, when Crowley had left. And it hurt, thinking about that time, of the angry shouts and empty accusations that had hurt nonetheless. It hurt even more to remember the fear in Crowley's eyes, fire that, for once, did not warm the angel's heart, flames licking at it gentle. It was fear that paralysed, burning chains wrapped around your throat while it ate away at you slowly, _painfully_.

And just like that last time, Aziraphale slipped up. This time, he knew what he was doing as he settled under the heavy duvet and closed his eyes. His heart beating so fast, he was surprised he was able to fall asleep.

But he was tired and he was in pain. And the only creature that could help was waiting for him, back in that garden. 

Except, Crowley was not there. 

And every night Aziraphale would go to bed, heart heavy with dread, the lead in his throat- weighing him down. And he would tell himself, it was easier this way. It made the time go faster, it made it hurt less.

It didn't.

Sitting there, under the apple blossoms, that warm breeze lashing at his skin. Alone.

_Good Lord, how much it hurt._

And yet he never stopped. His demon would be there, he reasoned, one day. He would hold him in his arms like he had done before, he would feel the warmth of his laughter, heavy on his skin. He would be with Crowley and nothing else would matter.

So he fell asleep, night after night, his hope dwindling like an old candle, forgotten on his nightstand. He went to their world.

Until he no longer could.

* * *

  
This was how Aziraphale found him. Sprawled on a couch, sharper than his own taunting thoughts, drunk on cheap ale and guilt and unable to tell which one was more bitter. He had lost one of his socks somewhere and, lucky for him, the silk robe, hanging loosely from his shoulders, was all dark. 

And yet, Aziraphale still looked at him _like that_ , worried-bitten lips pursing, fingers lacing together to stop themselves from fidgeting. And there was something so _soft_ in the way he gazed at him. Something that, had Crowley been less drunk, he would have hesitated to call concern, but was too clear, now, for it to be anything else. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley muttered, voice coming out too raw. He would blame it on the drink in his hand, he knew. Just as he knew they would both fail to mention the bitterness of the lie. The demon jumped to his feet, swaying slightly and his angel was next to him in a second, hands wrapping around his waist. 

It was strange. Crowley had thought that when the moment came he would want to escape again. 

He didn't. The truth was clawing at his throat, venomous talons sinking into his vocal cords, and for a moment he couldn't form words. He whined, _stupid_ , _pathetic thing_ that he was, fingers reaching out and curling around the other's biceps. To keep himself from toppling over, from sending them both to the floor, he would later lie to himself. 

"I'm so sorry, my dearest," Aziraphale was talking, hurried and tense, a machine gun and every word was a bullet, exploding into tender flesh. "I know I should have left you to process at your own pace, I know how you get. But it's been weeks, Crowley, and I was worried and I will leave, I promise I will. I just need to make sure you are okay, my dear, please?"

Crowley shook his head, a marionette- its strings cut. Partly because he wasn't okay, of course he wasn't. He wasn't _supposed_ to be. Not after everything that he had done. Mostly, and it was hard, admitting this, even to himself, because it wasn't fair.

Aziraphale couldn't appear, heaven soft and just as beautiful, his gentle worry, melting Crowley's edges in a single breath. His angel couldn't be standing here, so damn perfect, so insufferably _forgiving_ , so fucking beautiful.

Crowley didn't deserve that.

"Angel," he started, reverent, before he could stop himself. Before he could remember to bite his tongue, sharp fangs drawing blood. Briefly, he considered sobering up. Mostly, he tried to erect the walls around his heart, the same ones he had spent what had felt like eternities, but was only a few mortal weeks, destroying. Brick by soul-heavy brick, until he could no longer tell the clay from the blood, staining his broken fingers.

"I need to tell you." Without his permission, his fingers were digging into the other's flesh and he stopped, just for a moment. A second frozen in amber, enough to seal this into his mind, the feel of his angel, the memory of his touch. He didn't feel dirty for it, there would be time for that. For the disgust and mortification to swallow him, tar-thick and just as heavy. "I'm not, ngh, _good_ with... You know I can't..."

Crowley took a breath, squeezed one last time. The vice around his chest had moved up now, choking him, and had he been less drunk... No, he realised. It didn't matter how drunk he was, it didn't matter how pathetic, how stupid.

This was how it ended. This was how it had always supposed to end.

"I love you." Such a simple phrase, and yet how much it hurt. It was beautiful, a flower that had bloomed inside the darkest corner of his soul but, oh, how the thorns dragged at his throat. "If I could only show..."

Aziraphale's face darkened, a shadow over a full moon and Crowley bit his lips. Tried to move away, run away, again, maybe. Just as long as he didn't have to _see_...

And then his angel was holding him close, fingers making feather-light cuffs around the demon's wrists. If he wanted to leave, he could. 

_He could._

"You don't have to show me, my dearest." Aziraphale moved closer, a twitch, only a breath long, and yet it managed to stop Crowley's bruised heart. "I know you. I know your soul."

Later, Crowley would think, this is where he had fucked up. Talon-sharp regret would sink into his soul, his angel's every word- a barbed lash stinging tender flesh. This was the moment he had hurt Aziraphale, had done the unforgivable.

It would be lucky, then, that his angel would still be there, perfect and soft and still so _forgiving_.

Crowley extracted himself, all he needed was a light push and the other was letting him go, hands falling down his sides, empty and cold.

"You don't, angel. That's the problem."

"My dear, whatever could you possibl..."

The fingers buried inside Crowley's hair burnt like holy water and he let his nails drag at the flesh, draw blood, distract from the way his heart was slowly falling to pieces.

"What I've done, angel... The _things_ I've done to you. You don't know, you can't possibly know."

Another step back and Crowley could finally breathe again. It hurt, the air forcing itself into his lungs, cold and sterile, so far away from his angel.

"What I did was vile. Horrible. _Disgusting_. I used you, Aziraphale. I used you in the worst way of all."

His angel was pale, a statue frozen in disbelief and for a moment Crowley wanted to laugh. He was a demon after all, demons were not supposed to feel the acid of regret, eating away at their non-existent heart.

"I don't understand," Aziraphale must have said, or was it simply the wind carrying his thoughts. There were tears, crystals swimming in the ocean of his eyes and Crowley should have been happy. He had finally made him understand. 

Then why did it hurt so much?

Crowley raised his hand, a simple gesture that would have carried him away. Hopefully, somewhere far, somewhere he could no longer hurt the only creature he had ever cared about. Somewhere _away_. He would have left. And he probably would not have returned.

But Aziraphale was holding on to him, fingers digging into his arm and sending little shivers down his stupid, mortal body. And he was looking at him, snow-pale lips trembling, beautiful skin flushed. 

He was in pain and Crowley would have told him, would have promised him, with the weight of the only thing worthy of being promised, that it would get better. That he would forget that dark smear that was the demon and he would be happy. 

Without him. 

Aziraphale would be happy.

"Then you didn't mean it?" his angel was asking, the quiver in his voice- a razor against Crowley's throat. "What you said, to me, you didn't mean it?"

Crowley sighed. "I've said a lot of things, Aziraphale."

His angel shook his head, curls- a wild halo. 

"When you said you loved me. When you said you will _always_ love me. Were you _lying_?" There was a dangerous pitch in Aziraphale's voice, one the demon had rarely heard and never towards himself. One that would, usually, twist a smirk on Crowley's lips, make him pity the bloody fool who had angered his angel.

Only, this time, that fool was him. And he didn't even know what he had done.

"I didn't say that," he hissed. He was sure of it.

Had he? Had he perhaps gotten so drunk he had confessed to his angel, had bared the soot-dripping tentacles he called a heart, had _fucked_ up, again. And then he had forgotten?

"I never said that," he whispered. He wasn't so sure anymore.

* * *

Aziraphale dropped his hand, nails leaving the angry marks they had created to dig into his own fists instead. There were tears, held prisoner by sheer will and the realisation that was he to cry, now, he would only make his friend uncomfortable. 

Had he imagined all of this? Had he simply... willed it to be? A dusty old angel, all alone, sleeping in that empty bookshop, because he missed his best friend. Because he missed the only creature that had ever been his. But Crowley hadn't been. 

He had made it all up. 

Aziraphale chuckled. Maybe some day he might see the humour of this. A lonely angel, dreaming of a better world. Confusing it for reality. And there he was, now, making a fool of himself. Crowley probably felt sorry for him. God, was this why he had apologised? The _vile_ things the demon had done? All that hand-holding and smiles and gazes he had mistook for wistful, had they all been for _Aziraphale's_ sake? 

But no, because Crowley had said he loved him. In that dream. He _had_ , hadn't he? And his demon had been so careful the past few months, so gentle with him. They had gone on dates, proper dates and they had been taking things slow, just like Crowley had asked. _In that dream._ But Crowley had been so lovely! Like... like he had always been. A lovely, caring creature, so rubbish at being a demon. What had made Aziraphale Fall for him.

That feeling around them, the one he had believed, so foolishly, was love, was dull now. A monochromatic fog replacing the vibrant hurricane the angel had grown so familiar with. 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked suddenly, the wonder in his voice almost a separate world now. One the angel didn't know if he was still invited to. 

The demon stepped closer, eating away at the distance and the feeling pulsed, slightly, as if tasting the air between them. 

"That wasn't..." Hands were snaking around his waist, warm and heavy, and he would have pushed Crowley away. He would have, but the demon was warm, and he was solid, and Aziraphale had never allowed himself to believe this would happen. Not before, when he had been so careful, of very touch and every caress, and certainty not now, when he _knew_. "A few weeks ago? That wasn't the first time you dreamt of me?"

Honey-thick and just as sweet, the feeling blanketed them, just as Crowley dragged him closer, secured him in his arms. A shake of the head, a confused little gesture, and the demon was wrapping around him. Suddenly, Crowley was everywhere, his fingers buried in white locks, his head resting on a broad shoulder, his breath- tickling Aziraphale's neck. Warm. Solid. 

Not a dream.

"Not a dream," Crowley murmured. Aziraphale had to wonder if he had said the last thing out loud or if it was simply... simply, the way his demon was. 

They stayed like this, two vines wrapped around each other, for eternities. Stars were born and stars burnt and the world continued its lazy spin. They stayed like this until Aziraphale was able to carve just enough space in his mind for the idea that maybe he hadn't imagined it all. Crowley loved him. Crowley would always love him. 

And then the demon was tightening around him and there was that smell, of earth and the burning cold of winter Aziraphale had forgotten to detest so long ago. 

There was a hill and there were lights, out there, in the distance. The rumble of a city, forgotten. Crowley was looking at him, something calculating and vulnerable, deep inside the molten gold and Aziraphale knew. He hated that he did, that he recognised the same wonder, the same poison-rooted suspicion, mirrored on features he wanted to sooth with a kiss.

Aziraphale looked around, gaze sweeping, taking in a view he had enjoyed mere weeks ago, seeing it anew. It almost felt like a dream, almost, and Aziraphale had to remind himself that it wasn't. 

It was real. It had always been real. 

"It's more beautiful than I remember," he finally felt himself whisper. Felt Crowley's chuckle, warm against the chill of the night, the way the fingers around his shirt tightened their grip. 

"It is."

Aziraphale laughed, head tipping back, delight, like bubbles, tickling at his throat. He swatted the demon's hand, felt a sharp want-shiver at the way Crowley smirked at him. The burning of his gaze, the fact it had never moved away.

"Stop it, you sappy old serpent," Aziraphale teased. It was easy, that. Here.

He had thought it wouldn't be. Surely, it should have taken longer, for him to get used to the idea of finally being in Crowley's arms, being allowed to tease and to touch and to smile, unburdened by the memory of frightened gold eyes and fingers, desperate and freezing, digging at his thigh. 

But no. It felt natural, like something he had always supposed to have. And that realisation made him laugh, once again, safe and warm, surrounded by his demon.

"Stop what?" said demon asked, tightening his hold on him, fingers dancing across sensitive skin and making Aziraphale shudder. "Stop this?" Crowley dragged him close, impossibly closer, until all the angel could see was that stupid grin, all he could hear was the way their hearts were beating together, a gentle symphony.

Long fingers burrowed in the angel's hair, tipping his head back. 

"Not this, I hope?" 

Aziraphale kissed him. Just to shut him up, he would later giggle, drunk on the way the stars were shining in the other's eyes. Drunk on that feeling, a bright technicolour rainbow, all around them. 

Drunk on the fact that it was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first things first! I want to thank everyone who has read and liked this story. You guys have been amazing and so terribly supportive! I love you all!
> 
> Now, I know this was not what you were expecting! But! What better way for Crowley to get over his insecurities than being the one who figured out their miscommunication and was forced to fix it. Also, he kinda had to? He was the one who fucked up a simple love confession, after all. Crowley, dear, give back the brain cell, it's not like you are using it.
> 
> I _am_ planning on having a little epilogue, most probably a date that they both actually know is a date. Which would be hilarious but would surely come with its own set of problems. But for now this is officially finished and I will be focusing on my Hitmen/Fake Marriage AU. 
> 
> [Here is my tumblr if someone wants me constantly screaming about ineffable husbands on their dash.](https://waitingtobebroken.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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